


Pride of the Fallen

by Alyeska_Writes



Series: All the Wretched Children [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arthur is easily manipulated, Coregency, Dark Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Evil Morgana (Merlin), F/M, Gwen is Protective, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kilgharrah is a BAMF, Major Character Injury, Merlin is Hurt, Morgana is a Ruthless Bitch, Rape Aftermath, Suicide Attempt, Violence, and he's a manipulative bastard too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2020-11-27 21:49:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 93,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20955455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alyeska_Writes/pseuds/Alyeska_Writes
Summary: Merlin has noticed some troubling changes in his friends. When they become the monsters he fears most, will he survive, or will they bend him until he breaks?





	1. The Warlock's Damnation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What Merlin hopes is the end, is only the beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> henlo! I come bearing another fic. I swear I'll actually finish this one ^^; in fact, I'm gonna be a bit kinder to myself by means of publishing, and, (hopefully) post about a chapter a week. it's a doozy, folks, so hold onto your hats.

It happens after he (accidentally!) causes Morgana to fall down the stairs. Look, okay, he brought her back, and she didn’t need to know. But she has this look like…like she _ does _ know. Time and again, he catches her smirking at him as if she’s reading every single one of his secrets, and figuring out which one would be the best to tell, and to _ whom_. He tells himself he’s just being paranoid, he tells himself that it’s the guilt talking.

But is it, though?

She seems to be spending rather a lot of time with Arthur. And that, by itself, is cause for worry. She could be doing— anything. Good gods, she could be killing him, for crying out loud! He usually seems fine, and Merlin usually makes it before anything can happen, but it only takes one time. One time, to be too late. One time, and Arthur is dead, and for the love of Camelot, the gods, and every single living soul in the kingdom, Merlin cannot let that happen.

So, every time she leans in to whisper in Arthur’s ear, Merlin leans in to listen. Every time she slips into Arthur’s chambers, Merlin finds a reason to be there, as well. It works really, really well, for the first couple of weeks.

Until it doesn’t.

It doesn’t happen all at once, no. It’s a slow process— an exasperated sigh here, a scowl there, nothing too unusual, until it seems…well, it seems like Arthur can’t even stand to be around him, to be honest. There are eyes on his back, constantly, while he’s working. Their conversation has dwindled down to almost nothing, and every time Merlin teases him, the prince glares, actually _ glares _ back at him as if Merlin just killed his dog or something.

And the _ questions_. Arthur didn’t used to be so damn…perceptive. He would believe whatever he was told; it had never actually dawned on him to _ check _ the tavern, first of all. But now, oh, now he _ was_, supposedly. Now he was actively _ looking _for his servant, and, well, obviously, it’s not like Merlin could tell the man where he went, not without telling him the secret he’s been protecting since he was a baby, that is.

It would be a whole lot easier to deal with if he didn’t feel constantly under watch. Even off duty, he feels the eyes on his back. He’s tried telling Gaius, but his guardian merely tells him that he’s stressed. He is stressed, that much is true, but if Gaius saw what Merlin saw, knew what Merlin knew…

Still, Arthur and Merlin grow further and further apart.

Arthur and Morgana grow closer and closer together. Which, honestly, weirds Merlin out, now that he knows of— The Thing. The sibling thing. But, there’s no way for Arthur to know, as he wasn’t there. And…there’s no way for Morgana to know, as she was unconscious— right? So while it’s weird, and while Merlin hates it for more than just that reason, it…sorta makes sense? 

Pretend he didn’t think that.

And still, it gets _ worse_. At least, Merlin thinks it does. Arthur has always been a physical person, yes, and Merlin is used to gentle shoves and a hand pulling him back by his shirt. What he isn’t used to, is a hand around his wrist so hard that it leaves a gods forsaken _ bruise_. What he isn’t used to, is being bodily shoved to the side, and, on one occasion, a much-harder-than-usual smack to the back of his head when he broke something, completely on accident.

Part of him wants to ask what the _ hell _ is going on.

Part of him is terrified. 

The biggest part of him, is willing to stick this out. Because, well, it could be worse.

And oh, how right he was. Right enough that he should’ve gotten out when he could. 

* * *

“Where are you going.”

As per usual nowadays, it comes out as a demand, rather than a question. Merlin, finished with his chores, fed up, and ready to go home and _ sleep_, turns to him, eyes narrowed, and spits,

“Home. I’m done for the day.”

Bad idea.

“Did I say you were done?”

“No, but—,”

“Then you’re not done.” Arthur regards him, his normally kind and inviting eyes narrowed into slits, as if— as if he were the wolf, and Merlin were the hapless dear.

Oh, gods, Merlin, never again use that analogy.

“I’m sorry.” Merlin says, fighting hard to keep his voice level. “Is there anything else you need, _ My Lord? _” Again, a horrible idea, but he really can’t resist. Arthur doesn’t respond immediately, but his lips curve into an even deeper frown for a moment, and his eyes narrow even further. He’d almost look ridiculous if he wasn’t so terrifyingly unpredictable.

“So where do you head off to, after you’re dismissed?” Arthur questions.

That’s certainly out of the blue…

“Home, to Gaius…” Merlin answers, warily. “We sit down to supper, and usually I go to bed right after.”

“Mmhm…and you study as well, correct? Gaius has taken it upon himself to teach you how to read?”

“Yes…”

Why does he feel as if he’s on trial?

“What do you study?”

“Well— his life’s work, mostly. Anatomy, medicine…”

“No old texts?”

“I’m sure some of them are quite old…? Gaius is no spring chicken, after all.” _ That _ was the wrong answer. Clearing his throat, Merlin continues with, “So, anyway, what does it matter? I know I work for you and all, but I hardly think that my private life is any of your business, and I was, originally, supposed to be Gaius’ apprentice, so…”

Going by the glare he receives, Merlin decides it best to stop talking.

“So you don’t study out of this, then?”

The book— correction, _ Merlin’s _ book, the one he received from Gaius— is slammed onto the table with such ferocity that the boy can’t help but flinch. Okay, don’t panic, just play dumb.

“I’ve never seen that before in my life.”

“Oh? Then how come Morgana found it in your room?”

_ Play dumb! _

“I…don’t know. Maybe someone— planted it there? Obviously someone who doesn’t like me! I mean, what would _ I _ need with a book like— like _ that? _ What even is that? I don’t even know what it is!”

Smooth.

Arthur stands, and it’s a swift, deadly, snakelike motion. Again, Merlin finds himself flinching, and wondering why he’s furthest from the door. Should he try to make a run for it? He should try to make a run for it.

He doesn’t trust that look in Arthur’s eye. Not one bit. He doesn’t understand what’s going on, or why he’s as frightened of Arthur as he is in the moment, but something in him tells him that he should get out of here as soon as he’s able.

Arthur takes a step forward, Merlin takes a step back. His heart pounds a tattoo in his chest— and he feels not unlike a frightened doe before a hunter.

Oh, but that’s rather sick, isn’t it? Again, with the deer analogies. Is gallows humour really appropriate in this situation?

They continue this strange dance of theirs until Merlin’s back hits the wall. Every instinct in him tells him to flee, get out of there, _ now_, even if you have to use your magic, just _ go_, because this— this isn’t right. It’s more than just off, it’s wrong. Everything about this is wrong. And Arthur’s face is close, too close, and even the smell of his breath tells Merlin that he’s not safe, this is wrong, it’s all wrong, it’s—

“Arthur?” his voice shakes, and he feels as if he’s about to cry. But no— no he can’t. He’s not a child. He’s a big boy now, and a warlock to boot. He won’t cry about the monster under the bed, even as it stares him in the face, smirking cruelly and caging him in with his arms. “My…my Lord?”

As if that’ll make it any better.

“What are you doing?”

“You see, _ Mer_lin.” it's far from the first time that the prince has put annoying emphasis on the first half of Merlin's name, but something in Arthur’s voice has Merlin shivering. And not in the good way, either. “I know something you don’t know.”

“And what’s that, then?”

The door opens. And Merlin really doesn’t need to see _ her _ smirking at him right now. 

“Finally.” Morgana is muttering. “I’ve been waiting for weeks. Have you told him yet, or are you just taunting the poor boy?” Merlin half expects her pupils to narrow into slits, as she regards him. 

“I was just waiting for you, Sister Dear.”

Told him…Sister Dear…oh good _ gods_. So they know, then. How in the _ hell _ do they know?

“Told me…” he swallows. “Told me what?”

He’s not liking where this is going. Not one bit. 

“The funny thing about being in a deep sleep, Merlin.” Morgana starts, and the poise with which she says it is bothersome. “Is that you can still hear everything that goes on around you. And let me tell you, I heard some particularly troublesome conversations.”

“Such as…?”

He just _ had _ to ask.

“Father’s adultery, for one."

Has he mentioned just how bad Arthur’s breath smells? Which shouldn’t be on his list of concerns right now, but the man is _ right there _ in his personal space.

“You see, I _ would _ thank you for healing the ailment that _ you _ caused, but— oh, Arthur, would you back up, please? I can’t see his face.” well, at least Merlin can breathe, now. “But seeing as how you could’ve told me a whole lot sooner,” she continues. “Like, say, when I first came into my powers and thought I was going mad? Oh, no, I remember now. You poisoned me, instead.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” he repeats, choosing to ignore that last bit, and how Arthur hardly seems surprised by it. “You must have dreamt it was me.”

“Still going with that, then?” Arthur sighs. “I knew you were an idiot, but I thought you’d at least own up to this.”

“There’s nothing to own up to.”

Arthur and Morgana share an amused glance, as if unable to believe that Merlin could be such a dolt, and oh good _ gods_, they’ve proof, don’t they? Not just the book, which, aside from their word against his, is the only thing they have to show the king.

So, he’s screwed anyway. Arthur gives the word to Uther and there’s a pyre with Merlin’s name on it.

“So I take it you’ve never attempted to scry before?” Morgana asks.

“It’s actually rather entertaining.” Arthur murmurs, and Merlin doesn’t have time to unpack that, even if he wished to. Really, the only thing that sticks out in his mind is,

“You _ spied _ on me?”

But really, should he be so surprised? Morgana, at least, he expected this from. In fact, she’s giving him a look that says the same exact thing he’s thinking. The only thing he should be concerned with is how utterly screwed he is.

“Well, we needed to be sure.” Morgana responds, voice sickly sweet. “We have plans, after all, and we needed to know if you’d be of use, or not. And, well, you will be.”

Oh _ gods_. 

“And how will I be of use, exactly?”

“Because you’re going to kill the king.” Arthur says. “Obviously.”

Wait a minute.

“And if I refuse?”

“Don’t be dense. It’s him or you, Merlin. What’s it to be?”

A very good question. Is it selfish of him to put his own life over the king’s? Surely, if he refuses, they’ll merely get him killed, and kill Uther anyway. And besides, it’s not as if he’d be doing the world a disservice, by killing such a terrible person. Maybe…maybe with Arthur or Morgana on the throne, Camelot will be a safer place for magic users. Morgana has her faults, yes, and she’s kind of a bitch, yes, but at least she understands the plight of the Gifted.

But still…_ kill _ him? He can’t…he refuses to take a human life, even if it’s Uther’s.

“Why don’t you just kill him yourself?” He questions.

“Because then who would we pin it on?” Morgana huffs. “And besides, I don’t like to get my hands dirty. And this _ is _a new dress."

“So, basically, what I’m hearing is, I’m dying either way?”

“Essentially.”

Fuck.

“…what would you have me do?”

* * *

The handle of the dagger is cold against Merlin’s already sweaty palm. He grips it tighter, as it slips in his hand, and steps lightly, aware of every sound his boots make against the stone floor. He’s not alone, either. He can feel two pairs of eyes boring into his back as the Pendragon siblings escort him to Uther’s chambers. The castle is quiet, and, save for the three of them and a handful of guards, nobody seems to be awake.

It’s been quiet, and thus, there is nobody guarding Uther’s door. Nobody to witness, save for his children, who ordered his death, and Merlin, who’s carrying out the sentence. With a shaking hand, he quietly opens the door, and, after seeing that neither Arthur nor Morgana are going to follow him in, gently shuts it behind him.

Slowly, dreamlike, he takes a step forward. And then another, and then another, until he’s standing over the sleeping monarch. As he looks down at Uther’s face, at the man who’s so _ awful _ during the day, he’s hit with a crippling sense of nausea. He’s about to commit high treason, after all, but it’s more than that. The man is _ asleep_, and unaware of the danger which presents itself. 

How in the world did everything get so messed up?

Trembling now, he raises his arm, and presses the edge of the blade to the king’s neck, and oh, _ gods_, he can’t do this. He _ can’t_, he—,

“Merlin?” it comes out as a groan, slurred with sleep, and _ oh gods_, he’s awake.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin whimpers. “I’m so sorry.”

“What the hell are you—?”

In one swift motion, the deed is done. And that’s it, he’s done it.

The King is dead.

Oh, gods, there’s so much blood. Miles and miles of red, and Merlin’s the one that put it there. It’s on his hands, it’s on the sheets, it’s on his shirt, on his face, it’s _ everywhere_, he— he has to get out of here, this instant. If he doesn’t get out of here, the red will consume him, and he will no longer be Merlin, but a part of this sea of crimson, and there will be no escape for him.

He dashes out of the room, dropping the dagger with a resounding _ clang _ on his way out, sprinting past the smirking faces and down through the courtyard and out of the front gates. There’s no turning back, he’s done this, and the king is dead, and he can’t do anything other than accept what’s coming to him. He’s damned, and Morgana is damned, and Arthur is damned, and everything is fucked. They’ve gone past the point of no return.

He doesn’t know how long he runs for, but here, in the midst of the trees, is where he stops and vomits up what little contents his stomach possesses. But it doesn’t stop. He doesn’t stop heaving until his stomach is sore, until he’s sure there’s no more bile left for him to expel. He’s crying, he realizes, although he’s not sure how long he has been. But when his retching stops, his sobs continue, and the tears don’t stop coming.

Heavily, he falls to the ground, and tries to wipe his blood soaked hands on the grass. It’s an absentminded action, and he doesn’t realise how desperate his motions are until he looks down, and his hands are covered, not only in blood, but pieces of grass and flecks of dirt. Oh, he is so _ fucked_.

He feels like he’s going to vomit again.

It occurs to him that he should speak to the Dragon. Standing, he reaches for that Inner Voice, and shouts the familiar words, and half-sprints, half-stumbles to the clearing.

He arrives first, as usual, and paces back and forth as he waits. He’s about to swipe his hands through his hair, when he catches sight of the crimson that still stain them. With a weak cry, he yanks his neckerchief off and wipes them as clean as they can be.

He can hear the familiar beat of wings before he can see the Great Dragon. He says nothing as Kilgharrah descends, and lands with a grace that never seems possible.

“What has happened?” to his credit, Kilgharrah sounds actually concerned for his well being, which doesn’t happen often.

“I did something.” Merlin croaks. “I did something awful.”

“Tell me.”

“I…you were right. I should’ve let Morgana die.” Merlin starts. “She’s twisted her way into Arthur’s head. He’s— he’s different. You should’ve seen him. I was afraid of him, I was _terrified_.” he admits. “They…they had me kill Uther, and I know I shouldn’t have! I should’ve just let them kill me, instead, and _gods_ _damn it! _I’m fucked either way! I don’t know what to _do_, I— should I run? But where can I run to where they won’t find me?”

“Easy, Young Warlock.” Kilgharrah soothes. “It is not all that it seems.”

“_How!? _” Merlin demands. “Uther is dead, and I killed him! There’s blood on my hands, actual, real life blood! How do you mean to tell me that it isn’t what it seems!?”

Kilgharrah’s eyes narrow as they do when he’s appraising Merlin, or as they do when he thinks the boy is a great idiot. It could very well be both.

“Come.” he says at last, and gestures to his back with his great head.

After a moment’s hesitation, Merlin climbs up to Kilgharrah’s scaly back. He _ swears _ he hears the warning bells in the distance, and good gods that just makes everything that much more _ real_. He can’t even enjoy their flight, worried that they’ll be seen and shot down, or something.

They don’t go too terribly far, and Merlin is grateful when he sees a body of water in the distance. He’s sliding off Kilgharrah’s back the moment he lands near the shore, and dipping his hands in the icy water, uncaring of the temperature. The blood washes off easily enough, and he moves on to clean his face in silence. Sitting by the water, he dips his dirtied neckerchief into the stream, and wrings out as much blood as he can.

It’s silent between the pair for several moments, until quietly, Kilgharrah says,

“There has been a change. A big one. I felt it some time ago.”

“Oh, yeah? When?”

“When you healed the witch.”

“Oh, perfect. So this is all my fault.”

“That is not what I am saying.”

“Then what _ are _you saying?”

“I am saying that the impossible has happened. Your destiny has changed, Merlin. To what extent, I am not sure.”

“Oh, _ wonderful, _ my inescapable destiny has changed! _ Great_, and what is it supposed to be now? To die by Arthur’s hand?” 

Kilgharrah says nothing, merely stares at him. If Merlin didn’t know any better, he’d almost think that the dragon looked sympathetic. 

“Time will tell.” he murmurs. “Come, it is time to return.”

“…Can we stay here just a while longer? I’m not ready to go back yet.”

“Of course.”

* * *

It’s nearly dawn by the time Merlin trudges back towards the palace. Most everyone is still asleep, but there’s a tenseness in the air, one that Merlin’s sure isn’t just him. It’s not until he hears a shout in the distance, that he realises.

They’re looking for him.

“There he is!”

He remains in place as the guards advance on him, and raises his hands in surrender. Might as well admit his guilt.

“Have you found him?” Arthur sounds out of breath. He must’ve been running.

“Yes, Sire.”

“Good. Put him in the dungeons.”

Figures. At least from there he can get himself out before he’s inevitably sentenced to death.

He keeps his eyes trained on the ground as he’s frogmarched down to his cell. He should’ve supposed Gaius would be watching, but he’s not entirely sure he’d be able to handle looking the man in the eye. Even just catching a glimpse of him, Merlin feels his eyes mist over, and his chin wobbles with the effort to keep his composure. He hadn’t thought of that, really, of how to explain this to Gaius. There would be no time for goodbyes, he supposes. If he’s leaving, he has to leave quickly, and there’s no telling what he’d say or do if he stopped for Gaius, for the only man he’s ever known as a father.

He stumbles through the threshold of the cell, and keeps his back turned as the door clangs shut. He doesn’t even turn as he hears the lock click into place, and moves only to sit against the wall, head in his surprisingly steady hands. There’s a presence still standing by the entrance, and Merlin just wishes they’d go _ away_. 

“Merlin, I just have to ask…” Leon starts, and Merlin glances over, eyes heavy. “Why? What the hell has the king ever done to you?”

Merlin can’t answer, can barely even look at him. Instead, he pulls his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them, staring straight ahead of himself at the stone wall. It’s silent for some time, Leon staring at him in calculating disbelief and Merlin refusing to acknowledge his existence. 

“Leon. Leave us.”

“Yes, My Lady.”

Again, Merlin refuses to look as Morgana enters his cell. He doesn’t even look as he hears her rattle what seems to be a link of chain. She scoffs, and when she kneels before him, she’s smirking as if this entire situation is a big joke to her.

“You were very useful.” she murmurs. “Thank you.”

He doesn’t need to hear this right now, and he certainly doesn’t wish to hear her gloat. He doesn’t even want to _ look _ at her right now, so rather than humour her, he turns his head to stare at the wan light of the dawn streaming in through the tiny window. 

Bad idea, it seems. The next thing he feels is sharp nails digging into his cheek, as Morgana fiercely grips his chin to turn his head, hissing,

“_Look _at me.”

There’s such a contrast in their facial expressions, he thinks. He can feel himself snarling, lips curling and nose crinkling as he glares at her. And while her eyes are filled with malice, she’s grinning at him, a sick and twisted thing, as if his torment is amusing to her. As he attempts to yank himself out of her grasp, her nails dig in further, and he can visualise the blood pooling beneath the surface of his pale skin. 

“You’ve got what you wanted, Morgana.” he says, hoarsely. “Now let me be.”

“So grumpy.” she sighs. “Sending me away without seeing the gift I’ve gotten you. How very rude of you, Merlin.” her tone has him sick to his stomach, and he can’t quite pinpoint why he hates it so, only that it makes his skin crawl. “They’re very pretty, I think you’ll like them.” he has no time to ask her what she means, before he feels the cool metal of shackles clamping around his wrists.

They’re unusual, he sees. The cuffs are thinner than he’s used to, etched with runes and inlaid with stones, a thin link of chain attaching them together. If he didn’t know any better, he’d almost think them attractive. 

“They’re designed to inhibit magic.” Morgana reports. “So you don’t get any ideas.”

They’re _ what _ now? Merlin’s disbelief must show, because Morgana laughs at him, and cradles his cheek in her palm. The funny-not-haha thing is that, two years ago, he longed for something like this, would’ve loved the soft touch of a lover from the woman before him. But now, it makes him physically ill, has him recoiling like it physically _ burns _to be touched by her.

“We can’t have you running away, now, can we?” she coos, her tone taking on that sickly sweet quality yet again. He looks into those eyes of emerald, he searches for the girl he used to know, but she’s dead and gone. He’d poisoned her, all those months ago, and now…now there’s no trace of her. In her place is this…this _ monster_, one that well and truly terrifies Merlin down to his core. 

“Please,” he whispers, and curses his voice for trembling so. “Just leave me alone.” she coos at him again, features contorting in mock sympathy, before she pats his cheek and stands, breezing out of his cell and away from the dungeons. 

If it weren’t for the sunlight streaming in, Merlin would have no way of telling how much time has passed. The longer he waits, the more his discomfort grows. Why the hell is this taking so long? Planting more evidence, are they?

He feels like he should pray, or something. He was never much one for prayer, to be honest. He’d always felt as if the gods were making a mockery of him, in recent years, like they laugh at him every time he prays to them, because what’s the point? Here’s your inescapable destiny, _ boy_, don’t ask for our guidance!

But right now, he could use a bit of guidance. 

Only he can’t concentrate, and every time the words come to his lips, the shackles around his wrists burn him. It’s nothing too severe, but he daren’t try to use his magic to test just how much they could hurt him. 

He doesn’t look up, when his cell unlocks _ yet again_. He’s sure this time it’s final, that the guards will bring him to the courtroom where Prince— no, King now— Arthur will sentence him to the gallows. He doesn’t want to look upon the face that condemns him. But when a soft and familiar voice speaks his name, he’s scrambling to stand up, to run over to Gaius and hug him one last time.

“Merlin…” Gaius murmurs, and good gods does he sound so confused. “What the hell is going on?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he’s all but throwing himself at his guardian. It’s awkward, and Merlin has to throw the chain over Gaius’ head, but that doesn’t _ matter_, because as he buries his face in the physician’s shoulder, he feels safe for the first time in days.

“It’s so messed up.” he finds himself sobbing. “Gaius, it’s all so messed up.”

Gaius doesn’t answer either, not at first, but wraps soothing arms around his ward. This time, Merlin doesn’t mind being comforted like a child, with soft hushes and a reassuring embrace. This time, he doesn’t mind that he’d been so afraid, because here is the grownup to make it all go away.

Oh, but…he can’t make it all go away, can he?

Regardless, Merlin is ever so glad for his presence. 

“I’ve been so worried.” Gaius tells him as they part. “They found that dagger in your room, and—,”

“‘Course they did.” Merlin huffs. “Of bloody course they did.” he lets out a mirthless chuckle, and runs his hands through his hair. 

“Merlin?”

“Not that it matters.”

“Merlin.”

“Hmm?”

“What are those?”

The question slams him back into reality. The reality where he can’t use his magic and everything is messed up and there’s no way to fix it. And good _ gods _ is he sick of crying, but as Gaius grabs hold of his arms, as he inspects the shackles, as his jaw drops in horror and recognition, tears are something that, though annoying, can’t be helped. 

“It’s all so messed up.” he repeats, voice nothing but a hoarse whisper, as he looks anywhere but Gaius’ eyes. “Apparently, Morgana could still hear us while she was asleep. I…don’t know how, I don’t know if she’s enchanted him or what, but she’s twisted Arthur. I can hardly recognize him, Gaius.”

Gaius stares at him for a long time, and says nothing. The unfortunate thing, is that Merlin can practically see the wheels turning in his head, and before he can say anything to discourage the man from taking action, Gaius says,

“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of this, my boy.”

“No, don’t.” Merlin pleads. “I…this isn’t something you can _ take care _ of. I committed _ treason_, Gaius, I— murdered Uther. There is no taking care of this, unless you want to end up like this.”

But what’s terrifying, is that he knows Gaius would do it. He knows Gaius would give his life up before Merlin’s. 

“Please, just, don’t.”

“…alright.”

Oh, but why does that feel like a lie?

* * *

It’s nearly evening by the time a guard comes to collect Merlin and escort him to the courtroom. It occurs to him, as he stumbles up the stairs, that he hasn’t slept in almost two days. Pity, that. Well, he’d always suffered from sleeplessness anyway, until arriving in Camelot, where he found that a simple sleeping draught, similar to the one prescribed to Mogana, helped him sleep just fine. So really, it’s nothing he’s unused to.

Not that it matters, given that he’s dying either way.

Not even his knees cracking on the floor as he’s forced to his knees jars him back to the real world. Everything is garbled and warped, like he’s underwater, and it’s not just because he’s tired. This is it, he realises. This is what it feels like to give up, completely. 

His eyelids are heavy as he looks upon the Disturbed Duo. Through his haze, he reckons that if nothing else, at least they’re convincing actors. Arthur looks…tired, shocked, disconsolate. Morgana’s eyes are red from crying, and if he looks close enough, he can see that she still _ is_, and dabbing her wet face every now and then with a handkerchief. And perhaps it’s because he knows the truth, but all Merlin can think is,

_ Oh, please. _

The courtroom seems fuller than normal. Makes sense, given that the king was just murdered in cold blood. Dare he look around? He expected Leon to be staring at him in the way he is, all confusion and something that doesn’t quite look like loathing, but it’s close. But, and here’s the bit that breaks his heart, _ Gwen _ is there, eyes shining with unshed tears, silently asking him how he could ever do something so terrible.

He decides it best to look at the Mad Ones, even if he hates them.

“You know what you are charged with?” Arthur asks, and his voice is clear and strong as usual, but there’s a hint of a tremor that, if the situation were different, Merlin might actually congratulate him for.

“Yes, I do.” Merlin answers, voice barely above a whisper.

“The evidence is certainly stacked against you. The bloody dagger was found in your room, and you were witnessed running from the palace. That in mind, how do you plead?”

_ Guilty_.

“It was me.”

Funny, Merlin was going to say those words, but it wasn’t his voice.

“I was the one who killed the king.” Gaius steps forward, and Merlin, unblinking, opens his mouth to protest, but the look on Gaius’ face stuns him into silence “I snuck into his chambers and cut his throat as he slept, and I hid the knife in Merlin’s chamber in hopes nobody would find it.”

He sounds entirely too calm. He doesn’t even glance Merlin’s way, at his horrified expression. He remains level.

There’s that smirk on Morgana again. Arthur looks like he wants to but, to his credit, remains steadfast, playing the part of the grieving son.

“Gaius, what are you talking about? We know it was Merlin, there’s no need to protect him. In fact, I encourage you not to. He’s been lying to you, Gaius. Did you know he has magic? He’s been manipulating you the entire time. Clearly, he wanted revenge on the king.”

The collective gasp is a bit dramatic. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Gwen covering her mouth, eyes wider than he’s seen them thus far. Leon looks entirely too shocked, or maybe not quite shocked enough, Merlin can’t tell. But none of that is what he focuses on.

_ Take the out, _ he pleads silently, as if Gaius could hear him, _ take the out! _

“No, Sire, I knew.” Gaius reports, still infuriatingly calm.

“Stop it.” Merlin warns.

“I knew that Uther would eventually find out.”

“Gaius—,”

“I’m sorry, Merlin.” and he does look really, truly sorry. “I only wanted to protect you.”

It’s horribly, horribly silent for several long, painful moments.

“Gaius, I…I don’t know what to say.” Arthur murmurs. “It’s with a heavy heart, that I must charge you with high treason. Take him away.”

It almost seems to happen in slow motion, and for a while, Merlin can’t find it within himself to even move.

“No!” the outburst is sudden, but expected. The moment he’s up off his feet, Leon’s arms are around his middle, holding him back with all his might. “Gaius, stop it! It was me! Tell them!”

Gaius says nothing. And he does not look at Merlin, not even as he’s dragged away.

The courtroom of hushed whispers is dismissed, and when Leon is sure that Merlin isn’t going to try anything, he slowly and carefully lets go. He stands there, staring at the door in disbelief, and tenses when a hand claps on his shoulder.

“I…Merlin, I’m sorry.” Leon murmurs. 

“Don’t.” he hisses back.

The hand leaves his shoulder, but the presence behind him remains for several seconds, before a sigh escapes the knight and he’s taking his leave with everyone else. It’s Gwen that catches his eye on her way out, and he can’t quite decipher that look on her face. It looks like something between…pity, and fear. Fear of him, or for him, he can’t tell.

When it’s only the three of them left in the room, he rounds on Arthur and Morgana with such anger he didn’t know he possessed. Not that it matters, as he doesn’t have his magic.

“What the hell are you playing at!?” he’s demanding. “You— Gaius is innocent. He knew nothing.”

Matching smirks from the siblings answer him. He shudders.

“This…” he murmurs, staring in disbelief. “This was your plan all along. You knew he’d lie to protect me! You _ knew _ he would! You _ wretched— _ !” he doesn’t know what he was going to do as he lunged forward, but seeing as how Morgana’s eyes flash gold, and he’s forced to his knees with a _ push _ of magic, apparently he didn’t have to make up his mind about it. 

“Gaius is a pawn.” Arthur is explaining. “Dispensable.”

“Is that what I am then, am I?” Merlin grunts. 

“No.” Morgana laughs, and her next words curl around him like smoke, clogging his senses and stealing the breath from his lungs: “You’re a dog, darling. Go fetch.”

“You’re despicable.” he spits.

“Oh, how you flatter me so.” her shoes produce a rather menacing sound as they click on the floor, slowly, calculatingly, as she steps toward him. “And besides…” again, he finds himself recoiling from her touch as she uses her finger to tilt his chin. “It’d be an awful shame if you died. Right, Arthur? He is rather pretty.” She laughs as he jerks away, but that’s not even the worst part, is it? He’s come to expect this out of her, but he’s still not used to Arthur looking at him in such a way.

The predatory gaze is back with a vengeance, and Merlin feels the bile crawling its way up his throat again.

How in the hell is he meant to get through this?

* * *

Gwen is troubled.

No, scratch that, Gwen is outright disturbed. She’s known Morgana for a long time, long enough to know that she hasn’t been the same since she’s come back. She’s a convincing actress, Gwen will give her that. But there are moments, when she thinks nobody’s watching, and someone else, someone different from the kind girl that Gwen once called friend, will poke her way through. 

Everything seemed to fall into place much too easily during Merlin’s trial. It’s not just Morgana, she thinks, but Arthur, too. Something is different about them. Morgana’s tears seemed just a little _ too _ sorrowful, to the point where it seemed…fake. And Arthur, what the hell was that? Nobody in the entire _ kingdom _ got as much of the benefit of the doubt from the prince (king now, she supposes) as he gave Merlin. Oh, and her favourite part was where Morgana’s tears just suddenly stopped. She can’t have been the only one who noticed that. 

She runs to catch up with Leon in the corridor, thankful when he stops to acknowledge her.

“Alright, Gwen?”

“Is that a serious question?”

“Alright, good point. What’s the matter?”

“Do you…” she sighs in frustration, and scratches at her scalp with both hands. “Did you believe any of that?”

“Not a word.” he answers, honestly and quietly. “Merlin would never do something like that, and neither would Gaius. At least not without just cause.”

“Exactly.” she answers. “I…everything is so messed up, right now.”

“I know.” Leon murmurs. “But Gwen, can you do me a favour?”

“Anything.”

“Play along.” her shock must be evident, because he looks around, hurriedly, and ushers her into a servant’s corridor. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on, but we have to be…vigilant. I don’t trust Morgana as far as I can throw her and…I don’t know what’s happening with Arthur but he isn’t right.”

“Then why are you—?”

“Listen, Gwen, we don’t know what’s going to happen. It’s best that, for now, we don’t arouse suspicion until we know for certain. I…I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

She can’t help but glare after him, in confusion, unsure of whether or not he’s acting on behalf of his friends or in self-interest. 

She flinches when she hears the courtroom door open, and, although she’s in the servant’s corridor and away from view, she finds herself hiding, regardless. She daren’t peek out, but she can’t help it, really, as the jangling sound of chains draws nearer. She remains as still as physically possible for her, holding her breath as the three come into view. And, _ gods _, does her heart go out to Merlin.

This has…got to be the worst she’s seen him. His pale face is gaunt and weary, eyes hollow and sunken in, not that she can see much, as he shuffles forward with his head bowed. His hair sticks up in all different directions, as if he’s been running his hands through it restlessly, all night. Vaguely, she wonders when the last time he slept was.

Arthur and Morgana are no more than two steps behind him, and she stares at them as they pass, horrified to find that they both seem positively _ gleeful _ at the plight of their friend. Suddenly aware that she could easily be caught staring, she tears her eyes away and presses herself against the wall behind her. 

Is there a word stronger than _ disturbed? _

* * *

Merlin is unsure whether or not it’s cruel that they allow him to see Gaius the next morning. 

He hadn’t slept a wink the night before. No sleeping draught to help him this time.

Or ever again.

He’s shaking by the time Arthur’s done escorting him to the dungeons. This clearly does not go unnoticed by the former, who openly rolls his eyes and all but shoves him into Gaius’ cell. 

“You have five minutes.”

There would never be enough time in the world, Merlin thinks. He supposes he should be grateful for even a couple of minutes. He can see the gallows through the window, and he’s sure Gaius can, too. The shadow must have loomed over him, in the night.

This time, as they embrace, there is no feeling of safety, or of comfort. That’s all gone, now, and it’s never coming back. Merlin can recall a moment like this before, with the Witchfinder, but it’s _ real _ this time. There will be no planting evidence, there will be no running around the citadel with Gwen, trying to save an old man’s life. There is nothing, absolutely _ nothing _ that Merlin can do.

And oh, gods, does it hurt. There’s a physical ache in his chest, and that could be the heartbreak, or the gut wrenching sobs that come seemingly from out of nowhere.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” he sobs, and he finds himself repeating it over and over again, unable to form any other words except variations of those three.

“Listen to me, Merlin.” Gaius murmurs, pulling back (again, it’s awkward as he has to duck under the chain of the shackles that have yet to be removed) and setting his hands on Merlin’s shoulders. “No matter what happens, I need you to be strong, okay?”

Part of him detests being treated like a five year-old.

Part of him doesn’t _ want _ to be strong.

Mostly, he wants to be safe.

Instead of saying all this, he merely nods his head, not trusting himself to speak.

Entirely too soon, rough hands are dragging him away, no matter how hard he fights. And that’s it, isn’t it? It’s all over. He thinks maybe there’s got to be _ something _ he can do, but there isn’t, is there? Arthur and Morgana wish it, so it is. And there’s not a damn thing anybody can do about it.

So it shouldn’t be surprising that the siblings don’t take their eyes off of him. A similar thing happened the night before; Merlin had been kept under watch, and, although he didn’t sleep and his captors did, he daren’t try anything with those shackles locked about his wrists.

He doesn’t wish to watch; he’d like to do anything but. However, it seems he hasn’t got a choice. The beating of the drums syncs with the pounding in his skull, and he tries to match his breathing to it, to do something other than pant like, as Morgana would say, a dog, but that seems to be in vain.

Everything is in vain.

He’s vaguely aware that he’s babbling, making a scene, begging them not to do this. But it doesn’t matter what he says, or how he pleads.

The order is still given.

They can hear him all the way back in Ealdor, he’s certain, as anguished screams rip themselves from his core, and Gaius hangs lifeless by the gallows.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...forgive me friend, for I have sinned. 
> 
> I'M SORRY GAIUS BUT YOUR DEATH SHALL NOT BE IN VAIN, I PROMISE.
> 
> I'm not gonna lie to you, y'all are in for a lot of death. which is canon typical but hey.
> 
> don't hate me too much, aaaaand comments and kudos are always appreicated u.u
> 
> see y'all next week!


	2. The Death of Virtue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They were friends, once. How in God's name does something dissolve so quickly?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> good morning! told you i'd be here this week :D chapter three is already done, and chapter four is coming along smoothly, and after that, it's rather smooth sailing, i think :3
> 
> for now, hold onto your hats, lads.
> 
> see if you can catch my meme references—
> 
> Chapter TW: implied/reference rape; torture; slavery

Morgause shows up a week before the coronation. She seems to take great amusement in Merlin’s predicament. Not that he gives a shit about her, or what she thinks, but it’s nearly impossible to avoid her, what with her always by Morgana’s side. She’s even getting along with Arthur, if one could believe that. In fact, one is not often seen without the other two. Three even, if Merlin is included. Which he very well should be, given that he’s dragged just about everywhere.

The shackles have still not come off. He’d love to report that not much has changed, that he merely goes about a servant’s duties with his _ stylish _ new jewellery, but that is…most definitely not the case. He never goes anywhere alone, he no longer retires to his own room, and Arthur and Morgana’s ideas of…

Best not get into that. If asked, all he’ll say is that he’s perfectly fine when all there is to do is chores. He _ loves _ doing chores. He’ll take all bloody day with them if he has to!

He only hopes that when night falls, Morgause will give him the small courtesy of not joining in the, er, festivities. 

If they could even be called that.

Throughout the day of her arrival, he pleads silently, that she’ll just retire for the night when the sun sets, that she won’t even speak to, or look at him. He’s been lucky thus far, but behind closed doors, he’s found, anything can happen.

He probably should’ve guessed that he shouldn’t be so lucky.

“Morgause has a gift for you, Merlin.” Arthur tells him.

Merlin doesn’t dare speak. Doesn’t dare look at Arthur, at the half-crazed look in his eye that so perfectly mirrors his sister’s. He doesn’t dare even glance at Morgana and Morgause, either, unsure what they’ll say or how they’ll look at him, and not quite keen on finding out.

“We’re tired of hearing those shackles clanking about every day. This should be a lot better.”

He doesn’t even have a chance to properly see what Arthur’s holding before it’s locked around his neck. He’s not sure what it is, but he should’ve guessed, really. The moment the shackles are taken away, he reaches, foolishly, for his magic. And oh, this is so much _ worse. _ It’s more than a burn, it’s— it’s like he’s being struck by lightning. He doesn’t even comprehend the fact that his wrists are free, as he clutches at his neck and gasps for breath, as the pain forces him to his knees.

It seems like an eternity before it ebbs away, before he can breathe properly again. He realises that the ringing in his ears is their laughter, and he wishes it made him angry, he wishes it gave him the nerve to do something other than just accept their brutality. Instead, it just makes him feel…small. And to be honest, he wishes he _ was _ small, he wishes that he could shrink and shrink and shrink until he’s invisible, until he ceases to be.

Oh, he’s in for a long night.

* * *

A long night, indeed. At least he slept? Sort of. He’ll say he slept. Passing out does, indeed, count as sleeping, right? He’s not sure if it was better or worse that it was merely him and Arthur alone, that the sisters weren’t present for what happened. On one hand, there’s less humiliation there, without an audience, but on the other…it’s so much worse than what’s been happening in the last few weeks. Probably _ because _ of their lack of audience. It makes sense that Arthur would be more bold without his sister there to watch.

He wakes up blissfully alone, although lamentably sore. He can ignore the ache, and he supposes he’s luckier than most men in his…situation, waking up in a lush bed that can only belong to royalty. In fact, if he closes his eyes tight, and nestles further into the soft pillows and silky linens, he can almost pretend that it was an act of…of love, he supposes, or at least of mutual attraction. Merlin is no fool, he knows that people indulge in the pleasures of the flesh with or without feelings of love, and he should know. After all, traipses with the other maids and the occasional stableboy aren’t uncommon, and he bore no romantic feelings for them, nor them for him. So maybe…_ maybe_, though he knows he’s never harbored the affection of a lover for Arthur, he can pretend that they are, at least, attracted to each other, that they _ both _ wanted this, that Merlin didn’t stop him because he didn’t want to stop him, and not because he simply couldn’t, no matter how desperately he tried.

But there’s several things wrong with that picture. Arthur is a handsome man, yes, there is no denying that, but Merlin was never _ attracted _ to him. Saying he had feelings for the man, physical or romantic, would be like saying he had feelings for Will. They were friends, and nothing more. Emphasis on _ were_. Their friendship is no more, and Merlin would be a fool to think it was still there.

He is no whore, he knows this. So why is he waking up like one? No, no, not even that. Prostitutes are paid for their services. Merlin refuses to put a label on what he has become, even though it’s glaringly obvious. Because naming it, applying that dastardly five letter word to his change in position, makes it real, and his reality is far worse than the delicate scenario of his mind.

When he finally pulls himself upright, he almost falls back, immediately. His head is pounding, and for a split second he almost wonders if he was drugged, or if maybe he’d had any wine at any point during the night, because good gods does he feel like he has the worst hangover. His mouth has taken on an almost sticky quality, and he desperately wishes for some water. His clothes, at least, are folded at the foot of the bed.

How very kind. 

He makes the mistake of looking down at himself as grabs his trousers. The bruises on his hips are rather telltale, aren’t they? And the…fluids, caking his thighs are going to be a nightmare to scrub off. He’s only glad that his neck was left alone; his collar got in the way. Even so, his neckerchief would’ve hidden them, for which he’s grateful. It hides the collar, too, luckily enough, and so far they’ve allowed him the dignity of keeping it. He’s merely grateful that his wardrobe hides the…extent of the damage.

Besides, all of his scars are on the inside. For now, at least.

He supposes it’d be useless to try the door, but he does anyway, and, surprise surprise, it’s barred. Frustrated, tired despite how long he must’ve slept, and still in pain, he sits heavily on the bed. Perhaps he should strip the linens to have them cleaned (and he pointedly does _ not _ look at contrasting stains— red on white and vice versa.), or get started on the chores that he’s used to, but _ can’t_. Or he won’t, whichever.

It occurs to him, that they’ve not even let him grieve properly, not that he’s surprised. It’s been both a blessing and a curse that he’s not been left alone, that he’s had distractions (horrible though they might be) to keep his mind off of what happened. The kingdom is in mourning, but not him. He’s meant to carry on as if the Pendragons didn’t use Gaius as a scapegoat, and, now that he’s alone for the first time since, it _ hurts_. It physically hurts. The only family he’s got left, now, is his mother, and for her sake, he hopes and prays that she stays far, far away from Camelot.

Oh gods, his mother. What would she have to say about all this? What would she think of him after what he’s gotten himself into? What would she _ do? _ He knows it’s not his fault (but isn’t it a little bit?) but he had promised her that he’d stay safe, that he’d look after himself. There’s no telling what a mother would do for her son, especially a mother like his; fiercely protective and willing to give up everything to keep a mere _ secret _ of her son’s safe, not to mention his person. She’d meet a fate similar to Gaius’, that’s for damn sure.

His anxieties and his grief have a funny way of sneaking up on him when he least expects it; the tears (and fuck it if he isn’t completely sick of crying) are sudden and shocking, and they definitely don’t stop, and won’t, for anyone or anything. He knows Morgana would laugh at him for it. Morgause would roll her eyes, and Arthur would probably strike him or something, but who’s to say? But he finds that he doesn’t care. Let them think what they think, because this moment, right here, where his sobs seem to worsen his wounds, is…oddly cleansing, in a way. Like, if he can get through these few minutes and get ahold of himself, he can make it through whatever else is thrown at him today. All he needs is a few more moments.

He doesn’t even flinch as the door unlocks, and doesn’t look over as it opens. He doesn’t even acknowledge the presence at the threshold, even as a soft, gentle voice breathes,

“Oh, Merlin…” and a pair of slipper clad feet hurry to him.

Gwen’s arms are surprisingly strong around him, as she gently sits beside him and, rather unabashedly, holds him. Funny, he thought they’d branded ‘Property of the Royal Family’ on his forehead or something, going by the wide berth he’s been given by the other servants in the corridors. Brave girl. Even braver still, as she guides his head to her shoulder and keeps her hand there, on his face, gently, comfortingly. There’s little else he can do, save for bury his face in the crook of her neck and continue as he has been.

Calloused fingers gently card through his hair, a dainty hand rubs his shoulder, and soft, comforting shushes fall from Gwen’s lips. She says little else, merely allows him to shake and shudder apart in her hold.

“It was me.” he finds himself saying, and his voice sounds weird, gravelly. “I killed him. I killed both of them.”

And that’s it, isn’t it? By killing Uther, he unwittingly signed Gaius’ death warrant.

“You didn’t kill anyone.” Gwen says, gently, but he knows that she’s lying for his sake. He knows that she understands the truth.

“Yes, I did! It was me, Gwen, I’m the one that killed Uther, and I should’ve known that Gaius would lie for me, and it’s all my fault. Oh my gods. It’s all _ my fault_, it—,”

“Hey, stop it.” her voice is firm enough that he stops, altogether, and only the occasional hiccup escapes, but kind enough that he doesn’t fear that he angered her. “I…Merlin, I know you wouldn’t have done something like this, or planned something like this. You are…kind, and you are _ good_, and whoever…did this, to the kingdom, but most of all to you, is the one that deserves to rot like this. Not you.”

He has a hard time believing that much.

* * *

Any and all hopes of hers were dashed the moment she’d walked into the room. Gwen isn’t sure why she felt the need to satisfy her morbid curiosity, but perhaps a part of her was hoping she’d heard wrong as she’d walked past Arthur’s chambers the night before. A quick whiff of the air, and a glance at the soiled linens had her heart sinking. But Merlin, he had it breaking. To see him in such a state, shoulders hunched, arms wrapped around his middle, was surreal and terrifying. She always thought him to be one of the strongest men she knew, and to see him looking so utterly _ broken_…

She’s not sure how long she sits there, holding him, until he seems to gather the strength to move. Still, she doesn’t stray far, as he leans forward, elbows on his knees, and picks at his fingernails, seeming to be either deep in thought or deeply exhausted. Probably both.

“I brought you some food.” she offers.

“Yeah? Were you allowed to?” he scoffs, not at her, she knows, but at the entirety of the situation.

“Not technically, but the Lady Morgana will forgive me.”

Probably.

He lets out an almost-amused sort of huff, as if hearing the word she left unspoken.

The silence is heavy for several moments, and there are so many questions swimming in Gwen’s head, but how does she ask them? She desperately wants to, but she doesn’t want to at the same time. Really, all she feels she can ask is if he’s okay, but she already knows the answer to that one.

“You can ask, you know.” he murmurs suddenly, once again as if reading her thoughts. “I know you want to.”

He needn’t specify.

“Is it true…?” she asks, gently. “That you have magic?”

“I was born with it.” he sighs.

“Wow, really?” how strange. She was taught to believe that magic is evil, and dangerous, and thus so are all those who use it. But Merlin is the farthest person from evil, the farthest person from dangerous that she’s ever met. “That must’ve been a terrible burden for you, to keep it a secret for so long.” again, he says nothing for a long time, before he, not even looking at her, asks in smooth monotone,

“Aren’t you afraid of me?”

Her knee-jerk reaction is to ask him how he could ever think that of her, but she bites her tongue.

“I could never be afraid of you.” she tells him, gently. “You’re too kind.”

“So you keep saying.” he mutters, as if he wants to believe it but deep in his heart of hearts is convinced of the opposite. “It’s not like I can do anything, anyway.”

“How do you mean?” she’d noticed that the shackles had gone, but there must be some other way they inhibited his abilities. Wordlessly, he reaches up to pull his neckerchief away from his neck slightly, and the first thing she notices is the glint of gems in the soft sunlight, and the neatly etched runes in the collar he wears. It makes her want to cry, for some reason. It just seems so…utterly disrespectful, like spitting in his face. And to see him wear such a thing, a collar that looks like it’s meant for a…a…

“Slave.” he says. “That’s— that’s what I am. That’s all that’s left of me.”

She wishes she could argue. How terrible must it be, to be stripped of the simple title of servant, of _ civilian_, and left with this. His personhood is gone, ripped away from him, and why? No, really, she wants to know why, she wants to know what he’s done to deserve this.

“I’m so sorry, Merlin.” she whispers.

“Don’t be.” he answers, false cheer brightening his tone in the darkest way possible. “You’re not the driver.”

“Merlin, I—,”

“I’m sorry I brought it up.” he interrupts, hastily. “Let’s…talk about something else.”

“Okay.” she whispers. “What would you like to talk about?”

“I…don’t know. Something else. Or do something else, I dunno. I suppose the floors could use a good scrubbing…”

“Merlin—,”

“No, really, I’m happy to do it. It gives me something to do, at least.”

She hesitates, and smiles gently at him.

“If you give me ten minutes, I’ll bring by the supplies and help you, okay?”

It’s the first genuine, albeit small, smile anyone’s gotten out of him in weeks.

* * *

Coronation day draws nearer.

Merlin doesn’t have much to do, aside from hope that the night he spent with Arthur was a one-off, and go about his chores with the help of an unlikely, though probably should’ve been expected, friend. Gwen happily chatters away, as they do laundry or the sweep or scrub the floors, and it almost seems normal. Sometimes, he can even forget the heavy weight on his throat and chatter back. He wonders briefly if the siblings are suspicious of the time he and Gwen spend together, but it honestly doesn’t seem like they are. Morgana still trusts her, it seems, which is good news for him.

At least he has a friend.

It’s three days before, as Gwen and Merlin work on the polishing that needs done, that Leon strides in and politely ushers Gwen to the side. All Merlin can make out is that they seem to be arguing in hushed tones, too quiet for him to hear, and there’s no way for him to listen in without it being obvious that he’s eavesdropping. He barely makes out the words,

“I _ am _ playing along. Maybe you should care more about your friend than your arse.” from Gwen, before Leon’s pursing his lips and frustratedly running a hand through his hair. He sucks in a deep breath and lets it out slowly through his nose.

“Let us discuss this at a more reasonable hour.” he relents. 

More reasonable hour? It’s noon, how much more reasonable a time can there be?

“Thank you. Now if you’ll excuse me, Sir Leon.”

Merlin wants to be shocked that she’s speaking to a knight in such a fashion. Sweet, bordering-on-shy Gwen. But he reminds himself of the fact that they were friends in their childhood, and it seems a little less strange. Still…

“What’s that about, then?” he asks, conversationally. Gwen smiles at him, but it feels like she’s trying to be disarming about it.

“Nothing, really. Just something we’re trying to get worked out.”

“Ah.”

He’d love to question it further, but Morgana takes just that perfect moment to breeze in.

“Gwen, could you leave us for a moment?”

Worriedly, the woman in question glances over at Merlin, before her eyes settle on Morgana once again, and she curtsies.

“Of course, My Lady.”

Part of Merlin wants to beg her not to go, but he knows that there’s no way she can stay. So instead, he keeps his eyes trained on the floor, waiting for Morgana to speak. It’s silent, for a long while, and he can feel Morgana’s eyes on him, appraising him. Just as he’s about to ask her what she needs, there’s a tingle of magic in the air a split second before his collar activates, and he finds himself on the floor, writhing in agony.

“Arthur was right.” Morgana says, and she sounds positively delighted. “You are fun to play with all alone.”

“What the hell are you on about?” he rasps.

“Oh, I just received some wonderful news, and I wanted to celebrate.”

“And this is celebrating?”

“It is for me.”

_ ‘Note to self: when I die, ask any and all gods who the hell decided that Arthur and Morgana take such a fiendish delight in the suffering of others.’ _

“Brother Dearest said he had so much fun with you the other night, that I should give it a go. I must say, he has more brutish tastes than I do, but I’m sure I can find my own version of some fun for us to have. Come.”

Reluctantly, he stands, knowing that she’d more than likely do whatever she had in mind anytime, anywhere, but dreading to find out what she means. It can’t be worse than what Arthur did, can it?

Oh, but it can.

An hour later, he’s shaking, sweating, barely keeping himself up on his hands and knees, and he’s fairly certain that he’s bleeding, too. His back stings something fierce, but, at least he got to keep his trousers on this time. Morgana, too, is mercifully clothed, but good gods, if he knew the horrors one could inflict with magic, and that she would, in fact, inflict them on his person, he would have killed her the moment she stepped foot back in Camelot.

She looks awfully pleased with herself, as she turns from him, to, from what he sees, stoke the fire in the hearth.

He hadn’t had the chance, until now, to really look about the room she’d lead him to. It’s mostly barren, save from a few…‘mundane’ instruments haphazardly strewn across the floor. It’s drafty, he notes, and he feels a strange mix of hot and cold all at once as his wounds burn and sting and the sweat on his skin cools. Perhaps they’re in one of the towers. It certainly looks like a tower room.

Perfect, maybe if she’s distracted enough he can run outside and throw himself—

“Have you had enough?” she asks, suddenly in his ear. He swallows down his disgust, and merely nods. “Use your words, Merlin.” she tuts, and he doesn’t even need to look to know that the sudden, cool, press of metal against his cheek is a dagger. Perhaps the same dagger they’d given to him to kill Uther with, or even the one Arthur had gotten her for her birthday. “Have you had _ enough? _”

“Yes.” it comes out as a hoarse whisper, and he curses himself for it. Clearing his throat, he tries again, with, “Yes, My Lady.” 

“So polite.” she commends, and the sickly sweet quality of her voice is back. “There’s a good boy.” and oh, how he cringes at that.

The door opens once again, and Arthur’s ever so amused voice is asking,

“See, what’d I tell you?” 

“Oh, we had quite a lot of fun.” Morgana sighs. “Did he scream so prettily for you, too?”

Merlin just wants the floor to open up and swallow him whole.

“That depends. Can you give me an example, maybe?”

“Oh, certainly. I was saving the best part for last, anyhow. Do hold him up, would you? I can’t do this if he can’t even stand up correctly.”

Merlin barely registers Arthur’s huff of amusement, or the hands under his armpits as he’s bodily pulled up off the ground. He refuses to rest his head against Arthur in any fashion, if he can help it, so he allows it to loll forward, and notes that with the way his vision swims, the tiles of the floor are animated in an almost amusing way. If he could just rest his eyes for only a moment…

A finger lifting his chin is a dreadfully familiar feeling, but he just can’t find it within him to care, seeing as how he can barely keep his eyes open. Morgana’s face, too, seems distorted, blurry. And is it just Merlin or are there three of her?

“Before we continue, did you want to hear my good news?”

He doesn’t _ care_.

“Arthur has named me coregent.”

Oh, maybe he does care, a little. Arthur on the throne with Morgana whispering in his ear is bad enough, but _ sharing _ it with her? What in the hell has the world come to?

“So I figure, since we are, technically, sharing you, right Arthur?”

“Right.”

“There should be some sort of indication, some sort of mark, to symbolise this, you reckon?”

That certainly doesn’t sound good.

He can almost _ hear _ Arthur smirking, and he wants to brace himself for what’s to come, but his body doesn’t seem to want to cooperate, a useless, unmoving mass, held up only by arms of steel, arms that he wishes to recoil from. 

He knows it’s coming, in fact he saw three or four of them coming at once (or perhaps that’s the physical exhaustion), but nothing prepares him for the feeling as the heated metal of the brand sears into his flesh, over his heart. He wasn’t aware that he still had a voice to scream with, but there it is, ripping out of his raw throat at a volume he hadn’t thought possible for himself. The good news, if one could call it that, is that he doesn’t have the energy he had an hour ago to jerk away, so at least he doesn’t make it worse. 

He’s not sure how long it goes on, but he must’ve blackened out at some point, because when he finally comes back to himself, that hot-and-cold sensation is back, focused on his new, er, badge, and his head rests, much to his chagrin, on Arthur’s shoulder. He doesn’t even have the capacity to flinch away as soft, almost loving kisses are pressed to his sweaty hairline. He’s not a fool, he knows that there is no affection behind the gesture. He’s being mocked.

“There. I’d say it looks rather nice there, doesn’t it Arthur?” when the only response to Morgana’s question is a noncommittal hum in Merlin’s ear, she laughs, and mutters something along the lines of, “Men. Such simple creatures.”

Arthur’s arms slip out from underneath Merlin’s armpits, and the latter falls to a shivering, boneless heap on the floor. He dares a glance up at the two, and he can tell, by the looks on their faces, that his night is far from over.

* * *

This time, when Merlin awakes, it’s on the cold, stone floor, and he thinks, 

_ ‘Ah, this is more fitting.’ _

He lay by the hearth, and he thinks that the still dying embers are the only thing that kept him from freezing to death in the night. 

Pity, that.

His legs wobble like a newborn calf’s as he attempts to stand, and he barely catches himself from falling, as he stumbles back and braces himself on the wall behind him. Dressing is a gods damned nightmare, and suddenly, he wishes for Gwen or even Leon, and to hell with his embarrassment because to say this is difficult would be an understatement. 

It hurts to wear a tunic, the rough-spun fabric catching on the brand on his skin, and serving to remind him that he— _ belongs _ to someone, two someones, in the worst sense of the word. He feels like he might be ill, and come to think of it, when was the last time he’s eaten, or had some water? Whatever, let him starve to death. He’s heard that it’s painful but anything is better than this hell. 

He’s trudging his way over to the door to check if it’s barred or not, but the sudden yet small click of the lock unbolting answers his question. Dear gods, let it be Gwen.

It’s not Gwen. But, at least it isn’t Arthur or Morgana, either. Much as he doesn’t wish to speak to Leon right now, or ever really, he has no complaints.

“Good gods.” Leon breathes. “You look like hell.”

_ Thank you, I know_.

“You look great too, Leon,” he quips. “What do you want?” And he knows that he shouldn’t speak to a knight that way but fuck it, right? 

“Well, I’m…meant to escort you to the dining hall to attend the morning meal, but you look ready to keel over.”

“I’m fine.” Merlin grunts. “And you can tell Arthur that I don’t need an escort. It’s not like I can go anywhere or do anything.” He moves to shove past Leon, and it would’ve worked really well to drive his point home if his knees didn’t give out right then.

“Yeah, I think that much is obvious.” Leon says, as he grabs Merlin’s arm to keep him steady. “Come on. Gwen can go in your place. You’re in no state to attend to anyone at the moment.”

So, yeah, that might be true. He wants to find it embarrassing that he needs assistance to do something as simple as walk, and he does, but it could definitely be worse. In fact it _ was _ worse, hence why he’s in such a state.

“Have they hired a new physician yet?” Merlin finds himself asking. Leon visibly hesitates before he answers, quietly,

“Yeah. He’s young, and he’s nice enough, I suppose.”

The unspoken, _ But he’s not Gaius _ hangs in the air.

“I suppose that’s where you’re taking me, then?”

“I figured I would, seeing as how you can barely stand.”

“Oh, this? This is nothing.” but it’s something, alright. “I’ve had worse.”

“Then, I must be blind. Because I’ve never seen you this bad off.”

Merlin says nothing in response, merely rolls his eyes. Talking is taking a lot of his much-needed energy, anyhow. For once since his magic was bound, the empty feeling is replaced with irritation. He’d be _ fine _ by now if he had it to heal him, but here he is! And it’s incredibly embarrassing to be half lead, half carried to the physicians chambers.

As reported, Elric is young, no older than thirty, with bright, kind eyes, and thick, dark hair, which he keeps loosely tied back. He does seem very nice, indeed. He’s much to learn though, Merlin observes, such as how to school his features when presented with…whatever Merlin looks like. He does his best, though, and quickly wipes away the look of shock and sympathy, replacing it with compassionate professionalism.

He has the calm demeanor required of a physician, but it does nothing to mitigate Merlin’s ever-growing mortification. To be fair, he’d feel just as ashamed if it were Gaius. Perhaps he should get over that. It’s not like anybody’s judging him— he just can’t handle the fact that everyone seems to tiptoe around him. He can handle himself (for the most part), and he doesn’t need any bloody sympathy from anyone.

Leon, at least, averts his eyes while Elric looks over the extent of Merlin’s injuries. The knight seems to be rather chagrined, or…something along those lines. At least, every time he glances Merlin’s way, his face turns a deeper and deeper shade of red. He keeps to a corner of the room, face pinched as if he’s smelled something awful. Merlin decides it best to not mention it whatsoever, to avoid looking over in Leon’s direction at all, and instead focus on something much more interesting, like his boots, or the floor.

Whatever poultice Elric is using stings like no other, and Merlin’s back twitches in protest every time it comes into contact with the oh-so-lovely lashes he’d received the night before. Other than that, he tries to keep as still as possible. At the very least, the salve applied to his brand is rather soothing. 

So he’s got that going for him.

Which is nice.

That’s not all, though. There’s tinctures and tonics and whatever the hell else to help him with the rest of his symptoms. And, hey, he’s got his sleeping draught back! Huzzah!

Now if someone could help him break out of his collar so he could get his magic back, that’d be absolutely _ wonderful! _ But hey, the only idiot in the kingdom who happens to be willing to risk their head to help someone they barely know is Merlin, so, he understands. It truly does happen to be that way, sometimes.

If nothing else, at least Leon vouches for him when Morgause (of all people) steps into the room. Her eyes immediately fell on Merlin, and narrowed into slits; her ever so charming condescension right there on the tip of her tongue (he swears to the gods above that he can just about see it) as she opens her mouth. 

“I brought him here.” Leon says, before she can even get a syllable out. “He wasn’t well enough to perform his duties properly, so I demanded he get treatment before he went about his day.”

“I see…” Morgause says, in that cool and calculating way that _ screams _ trouble. “Well, then. Merlin, are you able to execute your service accordingly, now?”

_ Does it matter? _

“Yes ma’am.”

“See to it, then.”

She’s gliding back through the door without another word, and Merlin tries his very best to not scream his frustrations, what with the spectators and all.

“Merlin, if you don’t mind my asking…” Elric begins. “Just how old are you?”

“Seventeen.” he answers immediately. “Why?” Elric inhales rather sharply, shoulders squaring; seemingly a subconscious action. The moment fades, and he’s offering instead, that kind smile, but it doesn’t seem to quite reach his eyes.

“Quite young, then.” he says, casually. Or as casually as he seems to be able. Merlin offers a shrug.

“I suppose. Anyhow, I should probably…” he gestures toward the door, before his arms fall back to his sides with a dull smack.

“Right, yes, of course. Don’t want to keep them waiting, I suppose.”

Merlin rather thinks he merely imagined the bitter edge to Elric’s voice. 

* * *

Gwen is nearly asleep by the time the knock on her door comes. She sighs in irritation, wrapping her shawl even tighter around her as she hurries to open it.

“Took you long enough.” she mutters.

“I’m sorry.” Leon sighs. “I— tried stalling them for as long as I could. I think they should be leaving him alone, though.” he looks over his shoulder and steps through the door, cutting a rather imposing figure in Gwen’s small house. “Good gods, you should’ve seen him today, Gwen.”

Her heart squeezes in her chest, and she doesn’t want to know, but she really, really does, at the same time.

“How bad was it…?”

“Well the skin on his back will never be the same, that’s for damn sure.” it comes out almost as a growl, and Gwen is taken aback. “I mean— what the hell has _ Merlin _ of all people ever done to deserve something like this? I don’t know what’s gotten into Arthur, or Morgana, but—,”

Gwen scoffs.

“They’re sick.” she mutters. “Very, very sick individuals. I don’t know what’s happened either, but they’re not the same people we used to know. I don’t know how, or why, but they’re different.”

“And Merlin happens to be the unfortunate individual that they’ve set their sights on.” Leon sums up with a huff. “Poor bastard…”

_ ‘Ha. Literally.’ _says the voice in Gwen’s head, one that sounds rather suspiciously like the subject of their conversation. She stifles her giggle, and clears her throat.

“Anyway…any news?”

“So far, they’ve talked about invading Essitir, but they’ve made no plans. Morgana wants to wait until they’re settled as King and Coregent to act.” Leon reports. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they had their eyes on all of the Five Kingdoms.”

Gwen nods, thumbing her lip in thought.

“It’s not much better here.” she sighs. “They haven’t even been coronated yet and already, the people are talking of revolting.”

Leon’s face screws up in deep thought for several moments, and several more after that. He runs a hand through his hair, he paces, and when Gwen’s finally about to ask what his problem is, he blurts,

“We should.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Revolt, I mean. We _ should_. Think about it, Gwen. If they’re this awful to Merlin, who was their _ friend_, I’d hate to see what they’d do to their enemies. I wouldn’t wish it upon my worst. If we start now, before it gets too far, and if we bide our time and build our numbers just right, then we’ll have nothing to fear.”

She’s honestly surprised at him. Mere weeks ago, Leon would’ve followed Arthur into sure death. Then again, mere weeks ago, the king was alive, Gaius was an innocent man, and Merlin was nothing but a charmingly awkward manservant.

Things change.

She stares at him, trying her hardest not to grin, and jokes,

“Sir Leon, I could just kiss you.”

“Why, that is certainly not becoming of a Lady.” he laughs back.

“Probably quite normal for a serving girl, though, if a bit forward.”

He playfully hesitates, tapping his chin in mock thought, before muttering, “Good point.” and tapping his cheek expectantly. If it were anyone else, she would’ve laughed in his face, but this is Leon, whom she grew up with. So, she merely offers a fond eye roll, leans up on her tiptoes to give him a friendly peck on the cheek, and shoos him out of her house.

“Now, out with you. We can start planning tomorrow night, but you and I both need our rest.”

“Right. Goodnight, Guinevere.”

“Goodnight.”

Her dreams that night are filled with images of a grim, dark, but somehow…hopeful, future.

* * *

Coronation day arrives. Ironically, it had been his saving grace, as they’d decided to leave him alone for the last two nights. Y’know, to make sure he’s looking and acting appropriately. Can’t have him embarrassing them, can they? He’s not complaining, obviously. He gets his rest, _ and _they even dress him accordingly; no stupid hat, or anything! And the fine fabric of the tunic doesn’t irritate his still-healing wounds.

It’s the little things.

The palace has a rather tense air about it, all fake smiles and terse murmurs of congratulations. The servants, Merlin observes, are noticeably anxious. One young girl even bursts into tears after merely brushing shoulders with Morgana, convinced that the Lady was going to turn her into a toad, or something. On one hand, Merlin has a hard time stifling his laughter, because Morgana’s reaction had been _ priceless_, but on the other, he can sympathise. Empathise, even. Being turned into a small animal and then turned back into your normal self is no fun, and Merlin can attest to that. Though, he did have a rather lot of fun running Morgana absolutely ragged as a mouse…he regretted it later, but in the moment…

Even Geoffrey looks as if he doesn’t want to be there, and he’s officiating the bloody thing. 

It’s almost…sad. Because Merlin has been waiting for this day for two or three years. He pictured it as a joyous occasion: the sun would be shining, the courtiers would be smiling from ear to ear, and as they shouted _‘Long live the King!’ _ it’d be a deafening, ecstatic sound, and Gaius would nudge Merlin’s shoulder and grin, and mostly, he’d still be _ alive_, and perhaps Uther would’ve abdicated, and his blood wouldn’t be on Merlin’s hands.

But as it is, the sky is as dull and dark; it looks like rain. The smiles are either wan, or nonexistent. When they shout _ ‘Long live the King’ _ it’s out of politeness, and it sounds more like a congregation of tired churchgoers, chanting what they're supposed to chant, when they're supposed to chant it. But the most noticeable difference is that there is no nudge to Merlin’s shoulder, and the space next to him would be empty if it weren’t for Gwen, but as much as he appreciates it when she grabs his hand, he can’t help but notice that it’s the small, feminine hand of a handmaiden gripping his, and not the rough and calloused hand of a physician on his shoulder. Uther didn’t abdicate, and his blood still stains Merlin’s palms, although it can’t be seen with the naked eye.

Morgana looks beautiful, she truly does. Her dress is long, flowing. The colour suits her fair skin, and Gwen did an impeccable job on her hair, if Merlin’s completely honest. The only trouble is, she’s not quite as beautiful on the inside as she is outside, and it’s beginning to show. Her ruby red painted lips are twisted into a smirk, and Merlin has been biting his tongue lately to keep from telling her that her face is going to get stuck that way. Similarly, her eyes, green as poison, always have this glint to them, like she’s always planning something horrible for whomever she sets her sights upon.

Morgause, too, looks stunning. There’s no denying that she’s a beautiful woman, truly, because, like Morgana, all her hideous features are hidden behind a layer of alluring earthen eyes and soft golden hair. Similar to her sister, however, her true nature shines through; her features remain cold as stone, and she seems to take a fiendish delight in the fact that nobody except for her and the Pendragons are enjoying themselves. No doubt, when the announcement is made that the ban on magic is to be lifted (because why wouldn’t it be?) she’ll be made a proper member of the court. Court Sorceress, Court Priestess? Either way, she’ll be granted a position in the royal household. Nepotism always did favor people like her, after all. If not nepotism, then a keen eye for opportunities for individuals like her to claw their way to the top. To her credit, however, she seems quite content not sitting on the throne. So long as Uther is dead, and her sister is ruling, at least co-ruling, and she can still have a hand in everything, she’s satisfied.

And Arthur…well, if there’s one thing from all of Merlin’s wishful imaginings that’s come true, it’s him. Sort of. With his stoic and regal air, it’s easy to imagine that he’s not so boldly abhorrent to his friends behind closed doors. It’d be easy for anyone to believe that he’s still a decent human being, one who cares for the wellbeing of his people. It’d be easy for anyone to believe that he’s kind, and gentle, with an occasionally firm hand where it’s needed, rather than, well, the opposite; a rough and ghastly, greedy demeanor of take, take, _ take_, and sometimes, _ sometimes, _ a gentle hand; it’s a mockingly gentle hand but it’s gentle all the same.

(Merlin may be a fool for this, or maybe he’s just as perverted as the other three, but he takes comfort in the gentle hand in his hair, and, this is sick, but even the soft kisses that he can’t reciprocate in his exhaustion.)

And Merlin…Merlin is laid bare before everyone. Not in a literal sense, of course, but it seems as if everyone in attendance knows what happens. They can see it in the bags under his eyes, in the way his shoulders sag. Yes, his physical scars are hidden from view for the moment, but without his neckerchief, the collar about his neck is in plain view of everyone, sticks out like a sore thumb against his pasty skin, clashes with the clothes he’d been given. The garments feel nice, yes, but Merlin wishes for his old ones, wishes for the old and comforting scent of herbs and medicines that somehow still cling to the fabric. Gwen tells him he looks very handsome, and she looks like she means it, but her eyes stray to his…jewellery.

At the very least, the celebration feast starts out exactly how royal feasts usually do. Merlin stands behind Arthur’s place, pitcher at the ready for whenever the king (and it’s official, now!) needs his goblet refilled. He’s grateful for Gwen’s presence next to him, for the quiet chatter they share. Every now and then, Arthur will glance back at him, and the drunker he gets the more open his…leering becomes. He can’t help the full-body shudders that wrack his form, but every time, Gwen is placing a hand on his shoulder, and murmuring soft words of encouragement.

There’s nothing she can say to make this better, but gods only know why, it helps, if only a little. His shaking stops, at least. She even saves him from dropping the pitcher, at one point.

As the night wears on, as the guests at the feast become steadily drunker and their bellies fuller, they begin to pay little mind to their servants, and Merlin finds that his services are no longer required, as Morgause’s maid (yes, she has her own bloody handmaiden, something which shouldn’t surprise Merlin, but it does) tends to their goblets.

Merlin is debating on stepping outside for some fresh air, when Gwen beckons him away from the grand dining hall. She keeps checking over her shoulder to make sure nobody’s looking, as she guides him out into the corridor and away from all the action.

“What’s this about then?” Merlin whispers.

“Hush.” Gwen tells him, gently. “You never know who might be listening.”

True enough.

It’s not until they’re out on a balcony, far away from the music and the laughter, that she finally seems to relax.

“I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

He scoffs, at that.

“Do I look alright?”

“I’d love to say yes, but…”

“You’d be so sweet as to lie to me about it? Aw, Gwen. We must have something extra special.”

At the very least, her smile lifts his spirits, if only a little.

“Of course. You’re my best friend, Merlin.”

That’s the nicest gods damned thing he’s heard in weeks.

“…you are, too. My best friend, I mean.”

“I know what you meant.” it’s whispered, but it’s so wonderfully _ normal _ that Merlin can’t help but grin. Maybe it’s because he hasn’t found a reason to smile properly, but it makes his face hurt, and, it makes Gwen smile brighter too.

And there, right there, is the difference between her and everyone else. Because she _ is _ beautiful, both inside and out, and it shows. It shows in her smile, her kind eyes, in the way she’ll put everyone else before herself, or go out of her way to help a friend. Here, in this moment, Merlin knows he’s laid his eyes on the most beautiful woman in Camelot, the Five Kingdoms, very possibly the world. And despite everything, or maybe because of it, it has him feeling almost…giddy, and awkward, and for just a moment, he feels like That Boy again. The fresh faced fifteen year old with nothing to his name but a satchel and the clothes on his back, and the unspeakable power he knew next to nothing about. He feels like that boy, shackled in the stocks after a foolish and reckless first punch, meeting the pretty handmaiden to the Lady Morgana for the first time.

It feels brand new, and it makes him giggle, just a little bit. But that one giggle, just that one little noise of excitement and amusement, seems infectious, and then they’re both laughing; laughing until it hurts, until there’s tears of joy running down their cheeks and they can’t seem to catch their breaths.

He feels like he should say something. Something like…_ ’you’re beautiful, Gwen.’ _ or, _ ‘I’m glad you’re my friend.’ _ or even just a simple _ ‘thank you, for being here, Gwen.’ _

He opens his mouth, to blurt out his thoughts, but a familiar, and, rather angry, voice is shouting his name, and the moment is lost.

“I…” he manages, and sighs. “Duty calls.”

“Right…” he feels he must’ve imagined the disappointment in her voice, but he really hopes he didn’t. He turns to walk away, but that small and deceptively soft hand that had found his all day grabs his wrist. “Merlin?”

“Yeah?”

“I…” she sighs, lost for words, and when they continue to fail her, she pulls his head down to press a kiss to his hairline. He closes his eyes, and, maybe it’s because he’s starved for actual affection, or maybe it’s Something Else, but he finds himself leaning into the touch. “Be safe. You know where to find me if you need me.”

“Yeah.” he murmurs. “I do. I…thank you. Goodnight, Gwen.”

“Goodnight.”

He doesn’t look back at her as he departs, but if he had, he would’ve seen her eyes shining with unshed tears, for the friend whom she loves dearly. For the friend whom she desperately wants to save.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> forgive me, dear Merlin, for my transgressions T_T
> 
> the end of the next chapter marks the beginning of his freedom, i promise u.u
> 
> comments and kudos are appreciated, aaaand i'll see y'all next week <3


	3. To Take Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things go from bad to worse, and Merlin can only see one way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I despise the title, but let's get this bread, gamers.
> 
> introducing Amis, the French stableboy :D
> 
> CW: suicide attempt, implied dub-con, death.

Not two weeks pass before the Big Changes are implemented. Well, bigger changes. On the day that the ban on magic is officially lifted, and Morgause is named Court Priestess, the tower room is finished being set up for Merlin. He hadn’t even known that it was being set up for him, specifically. It’s not— a very nice room, but he’s his own space so that’s good, at least?

For the sake of his sanity, he won’t go into what the lower half of the room looks like, won’t even glance in its direction if he can help it. All he’ll mention about it is the set of stairs that lead up to where his bed is, and to be honest it’s a rather nice bed, though more than likely not for his benefit. There’s a wash basin, so he can keep himself relatively clean, which is nice. There’s even a trunk at the foot of the bed, but he owns nothing except a few pairs of clothes and a cloak, so he’s not quite sure what he might need a trunk for, other than useless trinkets for him to collect, or perhaps it’s for aesthetic.

But, and here’s the cruel part of it all, his book made it onto a shelf in the corner. His book, and several others that survived the Great Purge. The shelf is lined with dusty tomes and papers that he can never use, unless he feels like frying. 

At the very least, he gets some privacy when the announcement is made. The door is locked from the outside, sure, and his captors would never be so foolish as to leave the key lying around, sure, but at least he isn’t expected to be there. Instead, he sits in the window, and hey, look at that, he’s a perfect view of the square. It seems everyone has gathered, and he can’t quite make out the trio, but he can see the back of their heads.

Someone must’ve done something, probably Morgana or Morgause, as the crowd gasps in delight and wonderment (or so he assumes— the window is sealed shut so it’s not like he can hear) and breaks into what seems to be a round of resounding applause.

He can’t help but roll his eyes. That was another thing he dreamed of, the official announcement. Except, much like the coronation, it went a lot different in his head. In his version, he’d come clean to Arthur, he’d shown his friend that magic is not to be feared, but adored, though used with caution. In his version, though this may be wishful thinking, he’d be named Court Sorcerer, because, let’s face it, it’s not like he knows quite enough to be a priest. But that’s the thing, in his version, he could be. He could learn the ins and outs of priesthood, he could do what he was always _ meant _ to do. Or maybe he’d be the Court Dragonlord. It’s not like there are any others to fill the role, and it’d be nice for Kilgharrah and Arthur to hold council, with Merlin as an intermediary between them.

So much for all that. He’s spending the celebration locked in a tower, like some bloody character from a fairy tale. Only, his prince isn’t coming to save him, and there is no knight in shining armour for him, or even a princess to kiss the curse away. No, the prince is the one that locked him up as a gods forsaken bed slave, and the princess is the one shackling him to the wall and…_ mutilating _ him until it’s not skin he wears, but an angry red mass of welts and blood.

This is no fairy tale. If it were, someone would’ve saved him by now. But how humiliating is that thought, eh? He’s not just a serving boy (not even that anymore) with a bit of magic. He is the Last Dragonlord, he is the one the druids call Emrys, the one rumoured to be the greatest sorcerer that ever lived, or ever will live. He shouldn’t have to wait for someone to rescue him from his prison, but so far, everything he’s tried in order to rescue himself has been in vain. There is nothing he or anyone else can do, and…well, he might as well die. He’s going to be stuck in this until they get bored of him, or until he dies anyway, so why not send him early, as it were?

What should scare him, is the lack of fear he has about dying. What should terrify him, is that, when he’s all alone, with no company save for his thoughts, is that he _ welcomes _ Death. He embraces Her like a long lost sister, and yearns for Her to wrap Her arms around him, to hold him like a child as he sinks into Her embrace. He yearns for Her to hush and soothe him, to take his pain away, and carry him off somewhere else, where he can be at rest, forever.

It should scare him, but it doesn’t. Mostly, the only thing he feels is, not despair, but a big, endless, all-encompassing nothing.

* * *

Months pass. 

Gwen hasn’t even seen Merlin’s face, or heard his voice since the ban on magic was lifted. She’d expected a dramatic change, to see people using magic wherever she went, but it is not so. There’s the occasional serving boy or maid that makes their chores easier on themselves, that much is true, and a few citizens openly practising, but it’s nothing like Gwen thought it would be.

Merlin should be with them, she thinks. Merlin should be the one out in the square entertaining the children with his expertise, with the wondrous things he can, no doubt, bring to life. It’s all fine and good that the ban is lifted, but if anyone deserves the ability to practise his craft freely, it’s him. He was born with his abilities, after all. But, at this point, he might as well be dead. Morgana never speaks of him, and when Gwen asks, all she gets is a smirk in return. 

Gods, she hopes he’s alive.

She knows of his tower, and her grisly imagination runs rampant. She wants to think that it’s a nice room, that it’s bright and airy and comfortable, but she knows better. And because she knows better, the only thing in her mind is what she hopes is an exaggeration of the truth. 

Her meetings with Leon continue, and their numbers grow. She figures they’ll have to meet somewhere other than her house, or the tavern. Her house is too damn small, and they already have to speak in whispers in the dark, and the tavern is too public. Leon suggested meeting out in a clearing in the woods, where they could speak freely, but how in the world is anyone going to sneak that far out, and sneak back in? There’s already a strict curfew, and meeting in her home is risky enough.

They’ve already lost one member. Jacob was young, no more than sixteen. He was…determined, and headstrong. Being caught out past curfew only warranted an arrest, and perhaps a fine or an hour or two in the stocks, but, and Gwen can’t be sure how this happened, his mother had found his lifeless body lying in front of her door in the early morning. Resisting arrest, had been the excuse. He’d always joked that he’d die before letting the guards or any knight not explicitly trusted by Leon know of the revolution. Evidently, it wasn’t a joke.

He often reminded Gwen a lot of Merlin, with his quick witted comebacks and generally optimistic outlook. How much more he reminds her of her friend, now that he’s given his life to the cause.

She hates herself for thinking that, for some reason.

It had been a hard blow, on everyone. It’s not like they’ve really done this before. Sure, Leon has seen battle, most of them have in fact, but it’s a whole new thing entirely when it seems to be brother against brother. Uther was a fearsome man, yes, a person thought to be cruel, by many. But…it’s strange. He made the people of Camelot feel safe, and he never treated his subjects with such a blatant disregard for their general health and happiness. This is completely new to them, as a people.

“They’re sending out troops to invade Essitir within the next week.” Leon reports into the dark. A hush falls over their already small and quiet lot. They feared it might go that far, that kingdoms would be conquered in the name of glory and in the hunger for power, but it seemed like a distant thing. To be fair, though refugees have been leaving in throngs for weeks now, it has been months. Arthur and Morgana had plenty of time to settle into their new titles. 

“Someone will have to send word to the refugees.” Gwen says. “The people of Ealdor have been kind enough to harbor them there until they can get on their feet, but it won’t be safe for them there, anymore.”

“I’ll do it.” says a young woman, Maria. “Ealdor isn’t far from here, it should be no trouble.”

“Take someone with you.” Gwen urges. “It’s still too dangerous to go alone.”

“I’ll go with her.” murmurs Eleanore. She had been Jacob’s mother. “I can’t stay here.”

Gwen nods in sympathy, reaching over to grasp her hand.

“That’s understandable.” she says. “Give us a couple of days and we’ll get you everything you need. Remember to ask for Hunith when you arrive. Tell her that Gwen and Leon sent you, she’ll understand.” Maria and Eleanore nod in tandem, and though Gwen can barely make out anything more than their silhouettes in the dark, she knows that Eleanore is giving her a soft, sad, yet relieved smile.

“Is there anything more to report, Leon?”

“…I saw Merlin, this afternoon.”

Gwen can feel herself go stiff. Some of their newer members don’t quite understand the significance— they knew of the gangly young manservant that often assisted Gaius, but they never got to know him like the original few did. Like Gwen did.

“How is he…?” she asks, fearing the answer she’ll receive.

“It’s not good.” Leon says. “I thought he was skinny before, but now…”

“Did he say anything to you?”

“Not much. He wasn’t really…coherent.”

It’s…better than what she thought, at least. Whether Merlin would prefer limited coherency over death is yet to be decided. 

“…who’s Merlin?” asks one of their newer members. Gwen opens her mouth to respond, but someone else beats her to it:

“He is who we’re doing this for.” 

All eyes turn to Amis. He’s a quiet sort, his speech heavily accented. He’s nothing more than a stableboy, but awfully sweet. And, Gwen has noticed, rather sweet on Merlin. Not that she can blame him, of course. She’s not blind, she knows that Merlin has had his flings, but who hasn’t? They’re not numerous, but they’re not uncommon, either. Though she had noticed that the affair between Merlin and Amis had lasted quite a bit longer than usual, and thought perhaps there may have been some…deeper feelings.

At least, deeper feelings on Amis’ part.

Again, who could blame him?

“How do you mean?” someone else asks. “I thought we were doing this for, well, us. The people of this kingdom.”

“We are.” Gwen assures. “But…Leon and I observed their behavior towards Merlin, who…used to be their closest friend, and we decided that if we couldn’t keep him safe, we’d try to keep all of you safe.”

“They keep him locked up there.” Amis spits, pointing savagely in the direction of the tower. “For their own amusement. If he was once their friend, what does that mean for us, who they care nothing about, hm? Or their enemies, who they hate?”

The following silence is unsettling, and uncomfortable.

“Well.” Gwen says, finally. “I think that about covers everything. Be careful going home, everyone.”

One by one, they leave, careful to avoid the guards on their nightly routes. There are some that are in on their plot, but not many. One could never be too careful.

Amis hovers by the door for a moment, as Gwen is tidying up and Leon is helping her.

“Leon…?” he asks, and looks like he’s going to say something else, but hesitates.

“Yes?” Leon replies, not unkindly. “What is it, Amis?”

“Where…do they keep the key to the tower?”

Gwen exchanges a quick glance with Leon, before she answers, hesitantly.

“Arthur keeps it on his person, and I believe Morgana has a spare.”

“Amis…” Leon starts. “Whatever you’re planning, I’d advise against it.”

“We want to get Merlin out of there just as much as you do.” Gwen whispers. “But doing something foolish would only make things worse for everyone.”

“I only want to visit him.” Amis assures, hands raised in surrender. “And see how he is.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea…” Gwen murmurs. “I— want to see him just as much as you do, but if anyone catches you…”

“I know.” Amis concedes, quietly. But it seems much too easy, in Gwen’s opinion. “I only wanted— it does not matter.”

Gwen isn’t entirely convinced, but she nods slowly, bids him goodnight with Leon and watches after him, until he disappears down the road.

“Watch him.” She tells Leon. “Make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”

“I will.” Leon promises. “Goodnight, Gwen.”

“Night…”

* * *

Merlin has lost count of the days, the weeks, the months, even. He had watched from his window as summer turned to winter, this much he knows. And now, as he looks out to the forest, he notes the trees changing again. Spring, then. It must almost be Ostara, he supposes.

Briefly, he wishes he could go outside, and soak in the sun, and warm himself with the spring breeze, like he did as a child. It’s a foolish wish, but it’s what he wants most, at this moment.

He tenses when he hears the lock jimmying open. No, not already! He could hide under his bed, but how stupid would that be? Besides, he’d tried that already. And the cupboard. And the corner. Funny how the more he cowers, the less inclined they are to leave him alone.

He wonders who it’ll be this time.

He wonders how many it will be. Just last week (or was it last month?) Arthur had been accompanied by…a number of knights that Merlin didn’t wish to count, and still doesn’t. Sometimes Morgana brings an audience, which is less horrible but not much less humiliating by any stretch of the imagination. 

He won’t even _ think _ about their visiting uncle, Agravaine.

He stares at the door in apprehension, pulling his legs tighter and tighter against his chest, as he watches from the little loft where he sleeps. When the lock finally gives, he squeezes his eyes shut. The door swings open, and he doesn’t comprehend that the footsteps are light and timid, only that they’re coming closer, and closer, and—

“Merlin?” It’s a voice he recognises, and in all honesty, is extremely relieved to hear. His eyes fly open and immediately fall on tousled dark curls and sad, always sad, brown eyes. Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s all but flying down the steps and onto the main level of the room, skidding to a stop before Amis— not daring to touch him but desperately wanting to.

“What— what are you doing here? _ How _ are you here?” Merlin wonders.

“I pinched Arthur’s key.” Amis admits, almost sheepishly. “I…I needed to see you. And see if the…good gods, Merlin, what the hell are they doing to you?” A hand reaches out and brushes his cheek, and to his very own surprise, Merlin doesn’t even flinch, even going so far as to lean into the touch.

“I don’t… I can’t say.” Merlin whispers. “I don’t want to talk about it, I— _ can’t _ talk about it, it’s—,”

“Hey, shh…” the stableboy soothes. “You don’t have to. I’m so sorry…” he hesitates, and the pain is clear on his face. “Is there anything I can do?”

That’s an awfully good question.

He could lead Merlin out of here, but what good would that do? Merlin doesn’t have his magic, so if they’re caught, they’re fucked, and he doubts Amis knows how to get the collar off. It doesn’t even have a key. Maybe it’ll only come off if Morgana dies— wouldn’t that be something? But Amis can’t kill Morgana, either. There’s no telling what could happen should he even _ attempt _ that.

He could stay and talk for awhile. It’s not as risky as it sounds, and if anyone should walk in, Amis can merely— hide. He’d have to find a good hiding place, of course, and it’s not like Merlin wants him to bear witness to what happens in this very tower, but he could definitely use the company.

Or, and this is the riskiest option of them all, he could prove to Merlin that human contact is not, in fact, a negative thing. He can prove that Merlin can still enjoy intimacy with the right person, when he wants it just as much as his partner wants it. It’s a terrible idea, really, but Merlin craves…validation, and affection, and Amis…he’d really liked Amis. They hadn’t really ended things, exactly, and they didn’t know that the last night they spent together was going to be their actual last, but they hadn’t seen each other since, given that they were slammed with their work, and the king died the very next week.

He wasn’t serious about the stableboy with the puppy dog eyes, no, but he was someone that Merlin felt like he could actually fall in love with if given the opportunity, even if it was one more secret to keep. He’s certain Amis felt the same way. Why else would he be here, if that weren’t the case?

That in mind, he leans in and softly, gently, presses his lips to the man he’d once gone round with. The shock is evident, and Amis’ entire body goes stiff. But just before Merlin decides that he’s made a mistake, just before he decides to pull away, Amis relaxes, and kisses Merlin back, not with fervor, but…something else entirely. Something gentle, and sweet, and kind, and…one more thing that Merlin doesn’t care to name, at the moment, but it’s all so wonderfully familiar. For a moment, everything melts away. The walls, the hours/days/weeks/months, are gone, and they’re back where they were before, kissing languidly against the wall in a weeks-empty stall in the stables, or just behind the stable, or in the darkness and the quiet of Amis’ room above the tavern. For a moment, it’s just them, and nothing else matters, and everything else goes _ away_, and _ yes, _this is what Merlin needed, this is what he’s craved, and he’s never going to let go of this.

When he pulls away for breath, he rests his forehead against Amis’, not caring a single bit that it’s far too intimate, far too much like a lover than what’s appropriate, or even smart. He doesn’t care.

“Take me.” he whispers. With his eyes closed, he doesn’t see Amis open his mouth to protest, but he can feel it, can almost hear it, even. “Please.” he adds, and doesn’t even care that his voice cracks pathetically. “I just…I need this, please. I need this to go away, just for a little while. Please, just— please…”

“Okay.” Amis whispers, placatingly. “Alright. But only if you’re sure.”

“I am.”

“Alright…”

Maybe it’s because the past months have been a dreadful, twisted, and just plain incorrect, representation of what sex is supposed to be, or maybe it’s for another reason, but it’s better than Merlin ever remembered it. The kisses, and touches…everything about it is perfect. Amis holds him through everything, and it’s different than it was in the past but it’s _ good_, and Merlin finds himself begging: just one more time, one more time, one more time…

“I love you.” Amis whispers to him. Merlin doesn’t respond, and he doesn’t want to. This is fine, just the way it is.

They don’t even notice that they get the whole night together with no interruptions. They certainly don’t notice that they fall asleep together, and stay that way until morning. At least, not until the sunlight streams in and warms Merlin’s face until he wakes up. It’s a nice feeling, one he’s not used to. Usually he either doesn’t sleep, or he’s up before the sun. This is…so different, in the best way.

Until he realises that there’s a solid mass of person behind him, an arm draped around his waist. In his waking confusion, he freezes, thinking it’s Arthur. He relaxes, of course, once he remembers the night before. But once he wakes up a little more, the panic is back with a vengeance, and he bolts upright. He’s answered with a sleepy groan, and, without looking back at his bedfellow, he pulls his clothes on, and says,

“You need to leave.” he says, voice thick with sleep and trepidation. “If Arthur or Morgana, gods, even Morgause catches you here…” there’s a questioning hum, and Merlin closes his eyes as he stands, grimacing at the…physical evidence regarding their endeavors and wondering how he’ll ever get it cleaned up before they discover that he was, y’know, _ with _ someone else. “You know they’ll kill you. They’ll kill anyone. Except for me, of course, but that’s just because I’m…I’m a toy, really. I amuse them. You…I’m sorry, this can’t happen again, Amis, it…it was fun, but—,”

He turns around, and stops dead where he is. He was expecting soft, freckled features, and one stubborn curl falling gently over big, brown eyes. He doesn’t expect, nor want, to see Arthur where Amis should be. He has…an idea of what happened, but he doesn’t want to know, he doesn’t want to think about it. Even as a million questions race through his mind, even as Arthur smirks at him and stretches out on the bed, he doesn’t want to know. Despite all this, he dares to ask,

“What the hell is the meaning of this?” and he means to be threatening, he means to sound as angry as he can, but it comes out raspy, weak.

“That boy of yours really was pathetic.” Arthur answers casually, stretching his limbs with a satisfied sigh. “I caught him trying to nick my key for your door. Of course when he was caught he had a lot to say.”

Merlin, not for the first time, feels like he might be ill. He can feel it, vomit crawling up his throat. He tries his best to swallow it back.

“Where is he?” he whispers.

“Oh, dead, of course.” Arthur still seems much too casual for this, and Merlin wishes to lie down, but he refuses to step a foot closer to the bed. “Can’t have him coming up here, can we? Or stealing from me; that’s a big no-no. Anyway…it was fun being him…” he sighs, and it sounds almost wistful. “You moan his name so prettily.”

“Stop it.” Merlin whispers.

“He really did love you, you know.” Arthur continues. “It was quite pathetic, really, how he begged for his life. How he begged to see you just one last time…”

“Stop it!”

“Of course, I couldn’t understand him, by the end, I don’t speak the same language. I should learn, though. I wonder, when he spoke his native tongue for you, did you fall apart for him? You already did just at the sound of his voice.”

_ “Stop it!” _

“Something the matter, Merlin?”

He knows that there is, and he knows what he’s doing; it’s clear in the way he stands from the bed and towers over Merlin. He seems…taller, somehow, or maybe that’s just because Merlin hasn’t had the wherewithal to stand up straight for months, now.

“That was cruel.” he finds himself whispering. “That…this is a new low, even for you, Arthur.”

“Is it?”

Arthur’s goading him, he knows. He could respond, but what’s the point, really? Isn’t he in this for the long haul? Besides, it’s not as if he has the energy. Instead, he pushes past and sits heavily on the bed. He thought he’d felt violated before, but this…is something else entirely. He feels like he’s been cut open, like Arthur reached into his mind to pull out his deepest, darkest thoughts. Probably because…he had, in all honesty. It wasn’t as if Merlin told Amis _ everything_, no, but he told him enough. He said enough. He did enough. And now Arthur knows, and there’s no taking it back. Merlin’s deepest fears, now ammunition for Arthur to use against him.

“Why…are you like this?” Merlin finds himself asking. “You used to be such a…kind, and just person, and…what happened to you?”

“I woke up.” Arthur answers, simply. “The world isn’t a fun place, Merlin, surely you must know that.”

“I knew that.” Merlin replies. “I did. I just wasn’t aware I was still _ in _ the world. Surely, this is hell. I mean, answer me honestly, Arthur, what did I do to deserve this? Because if I’m honest, I’m still rather confused. Why do you both hate me so much? And, don’t you dare give me that cock-and-bull story you’ve been giving me. Secrets and poison pale in comparison. You’d think I’d’ve paid my dues by now.”

Arthur regards him for a long time, not saying anything. Merlin almost begins to regret uttering a single syllable.

“That’s where you’re wrong.” Arthur murmurs, eventually. “We don’t hate you, Merlin. You said it yourself, remember? You amuse us.”

Merlin shudders.

“I am not an _ object_.” he growls.

“Sure you are.” Arthur says with a shrug. “You are what we say you are.”

This time, it’s Merlin’s turn to stare.

“…I hate you.” he says, finally, and the clarity with which he says it alarms him. “I hate you more than you could ever understand.”

“Oh, come now. Don’t be like that.”

“Just leave me alone. Please.”

Of course, it could never be that easy. The good news is, he’s learning to check himself out. It’s like…he’s not in his body. He’s floating above himself, watching what’s happening with indifference. He can take himself elsewhere, he can focus on anything else except this. It’s easier with Arthur, because it’s a routine. He can ignore it.

It’s when Morgana shows up that he can’t pull his focus away. You can divert your attention when it doesn’t hurt, but pain is something one can never ignore. Nightmares in waking hours, brought on by magic and infiltrating his mind are impossible to escape from. Just when he thinks that there can never be a new way to hurt, he’s proven wrong. Just when he thinks he can block out everything in the recesses of his mind, she brings them to the forefront, and it’s nearly impossible to get them back into their cages where they belong.

The mixture of the magical and mundane is unlike anything he’s ever felt. He can withstand physical pain. He can withstand magical torture. But when they’re put together, in a frightful new combination, it’s an inevitable atrocity with no end in sight.

He’d hoped that by now they’d have grown bored of him, he’d hoped that by now he’d have stopped reacting. 

He’d hoped that by now, he’d be broken beyond repair, and put out of his misery.

No such luck.

It’s well into the afternoon by the time he’s unshackled, and left in a heap on the ground. At the very least, he gets the evening to himself. Hopefully. This is definitely against his better judgement, but before she leaves, Merlin reaches out with a bloody hand and grips the hem of Morgause’s dress. He knows that she, at least, hates him enough that she doesn’t care if he lives or dies, and she often accompanies her sister. Morgana, not noticing that Morgause has paused to look down at the mess of a man on the floor, is already down the hall by the time Merlin finally garners the courage to say,

“Please…just kill me.” a blonde eyebrow arches at his request. “I can’t…I can’t take this anymore. Please.”

He’s not expecting her to tip her head back and laugh at him.

“Oh, how pathetic.” she spits. “Did you really think I’d give you the satisfaction? Please.” and with that, she pulls her skirt out of Merlin’s weak grip and leaves. He closes his eyes as the lock clicks into place after her, and, with no energy to stand, he curls even tighter in on himself. He feels like maybe he should cry, throw a tantrum, beg the gods to do what Morgause refused to do, but he’s all cried out. Months of tears and mourning, and all that’s left, is that emptiness that creeps back up on him. All that’s left is the black space, that overtakes his heart.

His will to live is gone, his tears are gone, and there’s barely anything left of the young man that used to be known as Merlin.

* * *

Leon tells her almost immediately when Amis dies.

“They caught him trying to steal the key to the tower.” he reports. “That’s one more of us gone. We have to start making some progress soon, or there will be nothing left.”

Gwen sets her quill down, and stares at the half finished letter for Hunith. She had barely heard the second half of his sentence. She only knew that Amis was dead, and it was because he tried to gain access to Merlin. To his mere company.

“We told him not to do anything stupid.” she whispers.

“I know.”

“I told you to watch him.”

“I know, and I did watch him. He must’ve taken his opportunity when he could, when my attention was elsewhere.”

She wants to be angry with him. She wants to blame this all on Leon, for not being careful enough. But she knows it was inevitable. Amis may have been quiet and maybe even a little shy, but he was stubborn. They all were. They all _ are_. 

“People keep dying.” she says, voice lower than she thought possible for herself. “Where does it end?”

“I don’t know, Gwen.”

She scrubs her hands down her face and groans, barely refraining from bashing her head against the table.

“How are we meant to do this? It’s all so different now. Our group hasn’t done anything like this before, we’ve never staged a revolt. I understand that you’re a knight, it’s your job to understand, and train, and fight for the lives of the innocent, but you’re just one man.” she huffs a bitter laugh, and continues. “I used to call Merlin our lucky star. It always seemed to work out with him around. ‘Course, that was probably his magic.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Gwen.” Leon urges. “You knew this wouldn’t be easy.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t think it would be like _ this! _ I mean, for gods’ sakes, Leon, there was a time when I thought I might have been in love with Arthur, and that he might love me too, but now? Now, all I can think about is what he’s doing to my friend, what Morgana’s doing to him, and I can’t…”

She doesn’t wish to cry, not now. She’s held her tears in for so long, can’t she last another day?

Evidently not.

Leon is at her side immediately, a hand upon her shoulder, as he attempts to hush and soothe her to the best of his ability. Dimly, she’s reminded of her childhood, when she ran about the household with the young boy that now stands beside her as a man, when she’d fall and scrape her knee and Leon would be there to assure her that it would be okay.

“I know it’s hard.” he murmurs. “They were my friends, too. You said yourself that they’re different, now. I know that it’s hard to accept, truly. And you’ve been carrying this so well, for so long. Don’t you think that you deserve to grieve, too? Arthur and Morgana are still here physically, yes, but the young people we knew are dead and gone. It’s okay to mourn them, you know.”

She knows this to be true. But she doesn’t _ want _ to mourn them. Whether because she thinks that, deep down, the arrogant yet charming prince, and the sweet Lady Morgana are still there, or because she hates them so bloody much now that she cannot fathom shedding tears for them, she’s not sure.

“I understand that it would be easier with Merlin here.” Leon continues. “Like you said, he’s…a good luck charm. More than that, obviously, but you get what I’m saying. But remember that he is the one who started this all. Amis said it, last night, he’s the one we started this for.

“…do you think that you can get a copy of Morgana’s key? Maybe if you’re able to visit him, speak to him for a bit…well, truthfully, I don’t know what good it would do, but maybe…”

“Maybe it’ll lift both our spirits, is that what you’re saying?”

“I know it sounds silly. But he’s one of your best friends, and you’re one of his. I’ve seen you two around each other, I know that you brighten each other, truly. I don’t know how we’re getting him out of there, I don’t. I don’t know how to unlock his collar without a key, and neither of us have magic, but…”

“No, I get what you’re saying.” Gwen sniffs, offering a tiny, watery smile. “Maybe if I speak to him. Or maybe he can tell me where Gaius kept his books. I’m sure Elric kept some.”she sighs, and savagely wipes her tears away. No more of that, now. She let it out, and now it’s time to reign it back in, if only for Merlin’s sake. “It’ll be easy enough to make a copy of Morgana’s key. Just give me a couple of days, and if you wouldn’t mind distracting Morgana when it’s time…”

“I’m sure that’ll be easy enough.” Leon assures. “Be safe, yeah?”

“Always. But for now…” she takes up her quill, and jots down the last few lines of her letter. “We have to get Maria and Eleanore out. Did you bring the supplies?”

“I did.”

“Perfect.”

* * *

It’s well after midnight by the time Maria and Eleanore are safely away from the citadel. Leon had escorted them, as Gwen had to attend Morgana and ready her for bed. Maybe it’s too risky, maybe it’s too much in one night, but it doesn’t matter. Morgana is asleep, her healing bracelet doing its work, and her key is left foolishly on table. It’s almost _ too _ easy, and Gwen almost suspects that Morgana is expecting her to do this. But that’s silly; the key is left in the same place, every night.

Morgana puts a rather lot of blind trust in her handmaiden, doesn’t she? Or perhaps she merely expects her to be obedient, or even blind to her depravity. No matter— it works to Gwen’s advantage. She’s not once given into the temptation, knowing that it would out her, and having her fellow rebels to look after. 

It’s done quickly. All Gwen had to do was press the key into the clay mould and voila! Her very own key to see her friend whenever she pleases. Her very own key to _ free _ her friend when the time comes. 

“I promise.” she whispers to the mould, “That I will free you as soon as I can.”

Forging a key is obviously vastly different from forging a weapon, but it still takes a rather lot of work. It can be done in her fireplace, if she does it just right; she only needs but a few pieces of metal. Still, she has to ensure that the molten iron is at just the right temperature, and that takes a _ lot _of waiting. It’s well into the night, and she’s nearly asleep by the time she can pour it into the mould. It’s honestly a wonder she didn’t burn herself.

She flashes the key to Leon as inconspicuously as she can when she passes him in the corridor that afternoon, and she only manages to not smile at his nearly imperceptible nod.

That’s that, then. When night falls, she waits for Leon to beckon Arthur, Morgana, and Morgause elsewhere before she’s hurrying up to the tower. She’s only a few minutes, she knows, before she’s needed again and Morgana comes looking.

She smiles in satisfaction when the key fits into the lock, and looks over her shoulder as it gives. Certain that nobody has seen her, or will see her, she slips into the room and shuts the door behind her.

Her eyes immediately fall on the…for lack of a better word, _ instruments _ on the bottom floor. It looks like a bloody…torture chamber. Literally, there’s dried blood on the floor, that she doesn’t care to look at for very long. She supposes that it _ is _ what it looks like, and doesn’t care to dwell on that thought, really. Pointedly ignoring what looks almost like a horse’s bridle, she hurries up the steps to the loft, where it looks a whole hell of a lot better. It looks like a young man’s room, in fact. Small mercies, she supposes.

Merlin sits on the window sill, his head turned away. She supposes he’s gotten into the habit of not looking at who comes through the door. It’s always the same people, after all. Carefully, she approaches, and lays a hand on his shoulder. She immediately takes it away when he flinches, and squeezes his eyes shut.

“Merlin?”

His reaction to her voice is not exactly what she’s expecting. Instead of smiling at her (and good _ gods _ does she miss his smile) or greeting her, his head snaps toward her, eyes wild. He presses himself against the window, away from her.

“No.”

“Sorry?”

“Not Gwen.” his voice trembles as hard as the rest of him, and he vehemently shakes his head, trying his hardest to get away from her. “You wouldn’t be that cruel. She’s never done anything wrong!”

“Merlin, it’s me, love.”

What the hell is he on about?

In a split second, his fear is replaced with rage, and he hops down from the windowsill, his hands firmly grasping her shoulders as he shakes her with a force that genuinely frightens her.

“Where is she!?” he demands. “What have you done with her!?”

“Merlin, stop! I swear, it’s me, it’s Gwen!”

“I don’t believe you.” he growls. “Who are you really, then? Morgana, Morgause? What form will you take next? My mother? Will Arthur come in the shape of Gaius?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Amis wasn’t bad enough, so you had to take Gwen from me, too?”

Oh. She doesn’t know precisely what happened, but she has an idea.

“Merlin.” she says, gently this time. “It really is me. I can prove it.” she wracks her mind for something, anything, that only she and Merlin would know. “At the feast after the coronation, I pulled you away to check up on you. We laughed together, remember? I don’t know why, but we did, and I was so glad to see you smile.” he still doesn’t seem convinced, so she searches deeper.

And then she remembers; what she swore Gaius to secrecy for. She’s not sure if Merlin told Arthur or not, but she gives it a chance.

“When you had been poisoned, do you remember the first thing I did when you woke up?” his features soften, minutely. “I kissed you, remember? And I never told Morgana, and I don’t know if you told Arthur or not, but I really hope you didn’t, because if you told him, he could’ve told Morgana, and I’d still be in this big mess with you not trusting me, right?”

He lets go as if he’d been burned, and backs away. His eyes are still wide, and he wrings his hands together. 

“Gwen…” he murmurs, “Gwen, I’m sorry, I—,”

“I get it.” she interrupts. “I don’t know exactly what happened, but I have a guess. And it’s not fair to you. I’m sorry, love.” she whispers. “I am. I know he was special to you.”

He doesn’t say anything, but he nods mutely.

It’s in this moment that she finally gets a good look at him. Leon hadn’t been kidding when he said that Merlin had slimmed down to an alarming sort of stature. His tunic, which had already been rather loose on him, hangs off of him. His cheekbones jut out and his eyes are sunken in. He was pale enough before, but he looks…well he almost looks _ dead_. His skin holds a gray pallor to it, and she’s certain, if he were to take his shirt off, she’d be able to see his ribcage. All in all, she doesn’t know what’s keeping him alive, save for sheer force of will.

(More likely Morgana’s magic.)

He sits on the bed, and runs his hand through his hair. Funny, that. It’s almost longer than when she first met him, but, save for the shadow on his jaw, he’s clean shaven. It’s a silly thing to focus on, but it’s almost a silly look on him.

Besides, she misses those ears of his. He always hated it when she teased him for them, but she loves those sticky-outy things all the same.

“Not that I don’t enjoy the company…” he starts, and my, has his voice always been so raspy and deep? “But what are you doing here?”

“I heard what happened, and I wanted to see you.” she answers, honestly. “And to tell you that it’s going to…it’s going to be okay.”

His entire body shakes with the force of the bitter bark of laughter that escapes him.

“How do you know?” he whispers. “How do you know anything is going to be okay?”

“Because it’s you.” she says, firmly. “I know that this seems far worse than anything you could’ve ever imagined, and I know that this seems inescapable, but Merlin…I know you. And I know you’ll make it through this.”

When he looks to her, his eyes look almost a hundred years old.

“And what if I don’t?”

She stares at him for several seconds, unsure what to say.

“Then none of us do.” she says.

“That’s an awful lot of pressure, Gwen.”

“You’ve handled worse.”

“…I suppose I have, haven’t I?”

She sticks around for longer than she should. They don’t say much, and they don’t do much. But the ability to sit with him, the freedom to sit with him, even for a few minutes, makes all the difference in the world. He doesn’t smile, as she presses a gentle kiss to the top of his head, nor does he smile at her as she’s leaving, but she can see one, ghosting at his lips, before it’s gone again.

When she passes Leon in the hall, she hands him the key, kisses his cheek, and tells him he was right.

* * *

Seeing Gwen, the real Gwen, was a blessing he didn’t know he would be given. He offers a silent prayer of thanks to the gods, for their small mercy. It puts him in a better mood for a while. Even if it’s only for a few minutes, a hint of peace is better than what he’s felt over the last few months.

Time continues on. He watches as the leaves change, and fall. He watches as snow blankets the world outside once again. Perhaps it’s foolish to hope that the cold will seep in and have mercy on his soul, but he does, every night. His ten minutes with Gwen are over. His peace is gone.

He still begs Morgause to kill him.

She still laughs in his face, every time.

He doesn’t see Gwen again, after that. But often, he’ll be able to look out his window and see her, walking about the city to carry out her daily duties. There’s a fleeting hint of Something every time he lays eyes on her, but he doesn’t care to name it. He doesn’t even know what to name it.

Soon, he thinks, he will be forgotten about. It’s been a year, after all, maybe even more than that. He can’t be certain.

Surprise comes in the form of a visit from Leon, one night. He’s not even sure how the man got a key, and he doesn’t care to know, doesn’t care to know why he’s here.

The silence is long, and awkward. Merlin doesn’t know what to say to him, even if he did want to speak with him.

“I…I’m sorry, Merlin.” he says. “I really am. This…this is—,”

“Save it.” Merlin hisses. “I don’t need your pity. You— just leave. Leave me alone.”

“Merlin, I—,”

“I said, leave me _ alone!_” it’s a terrible decision really, but he grabs the item closest to him, and hurls it at Leon’s head. The knight ducks out of the way easily enough, and the book falls to the ground with a resounding _ thud_. 

“You’re right.” he concedes. “I had no right to come up here, and…I’m sorry, I was out of line. Forgive me.” he inclines his head briefly, and the door shuts softly behind him as he leaves.

It was a strange interaction, Merlin decides. That was the most respect he’s been treated with since…ever. Nobody had ever admitted to him when they’d stepped out of line, not even a fellow servant, aside from Gwen. Especially not a knight who had been absolutely _ convinced _ of Merlin’s guilt, and had seemed to hate him, until Gaius threw his life on the line.

His scattered thoughts are brought to an abrupt halt when he realises: _ the door was never locked_.

He’s careful, as he tries the door— oh so careful. And he barely manages to not let out a triumphant shout as it swings open. He doesn’t know where he could go, or what he could do, but immediately, he sprints out of the room and down the first flight of stairs.

With a desperate need for fresh air, he steps out onto the parapet, and breathes in the cool of the night. The snow glistens in the moonlight, and the wind tousles his hair. Gods, does he feel so alive. Rejuvenated.

But the cold seeping into his neck reminds him of the collar around his throat. He may have escaped his tower, but he’ll never be free, will he? He leans against the wall, hands braced in front of him. This collar will never come off, he’s certain. Not until he’s dead.

He opens his eyes, and finds himself staring at the ground. That’s a rather long drop, isn’t it?

And...out of nowhere, he knows where he can go, because he can hear it, now. She’s calling to him, finally, after he begged for Her presence for months. She calls to him from the ground below, and his name sounds so sweet on Her lips.

_ Come to me. _ She says. _ It’ll be just like flying. _

“Yes…” he whispers. The wall of the parapet is slippery with ice, but he holds his ground somehow as he climbs up.

Just like flying.

With his arms open wide, he lets go, and falls into the waiting arms of Death Herself.

His collar lay in pieces beside his broken body.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oop.
> 
> I hope y'all still tune in next week after I fucked merlin over like this :-)


	4. Emrys' Restoration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Merlin beats all odds, again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see? he not dead! :D anyhow, this is definitely more of a filler chapter but meh. I like it and I love my soft babes. also? catch Merlin telling Gwen that she played herself, because it really do be like that sometimes.

Late in the night, or maybe early in the morning, Gwen awakens to a pounding on her door. She’s loathe to leave her nice warm bed, but it does sound rather…urgent. 

Panic grips her heart, suddenly. She wonders if Morgana found out about the copy of the key she made, or maybe if Leon had been caught and tortured until he confessed. Oh gods, oh gods…

She opens the door, and stops dead for another reason entirely. It’s not Arthur, or one of the palace guards, or even one of the knights that Leon wouldn’t trust as far as he could throw. No, it’s Leon himself, carrying Merlin in his arms. Merlin, broken, bruised, and lifeless.

“What the hell happened!?” she demands in a whisper-shout, beckoning him in and shutting the door behind him. “Put him on my bed, yes, just there.”

“I think he might’ve fallen.” Leon reports. “I’d left the door unlocked, like we’d planned, but I…I should’ve waited just outside the door to escort him. I wasn’t thinking. He climbed onto the parapet wall, and I guess it was slippery, and…”

“Oh, gods…”

He looks dead. He might as well _ be _ dead.

“I’m so sorry, Gwen…”

Desperately, she presses her ear to his chest, searching for a heartbeat. He has to live. _ He has to live! _

“Gwen, nobody could survive that drop.”

“He’s not just anybody, Leon!” she barks. “He’s Merlin! He survives impossible odds, and he’s going to survive this!”

“Gwen I don’t think…”

She tunes him out. Searching, searching…

Ah! There! It’s faint, but she can hear his heart beating.

“There!” she reports, and a joyous laugh falls from her lips. “His heart is still beating!”

“What the…” Leon races over, and Gwen directs him to where she heard it. “Good gods…” he breathes. “You old bastard, of course you survived!” it’s his turn to laugh, though it seems like it’s in disbelief.

“I told you.” Gwen murmurs. Gods, she could just _ cry _.

“It must’ve been his magic that saved him.” Leon wonders aloud. “See, look here. The collar broke when he hit the ground.” he pulls the shattered object out of his pocket and shows it to her. The gems are cracked, and the runes unrecognisable.

“Favoured by the gods, indeed.” she sighs. “Would you mind monitoring him for a bit? I’m going to get a fire going.”

“Yeah, alright.”

She’s grinning like a fool, as she places more logs in the hearth, atop the dying embers of her last fire. All she can think about is how Merlin is _ alive _, and he’s going to be alright. His bones will heal, and he’ll be alright. It’ll be a struggle to keep it a secret, but that doesn’t matter, for right now. All that matters is that she has her friend back.

“Tea?” she offers.

“Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

Leon sighs, and leans back in the chair he’d pulled up to the bedside.

“Gwen…?”

“Mmhm?”

“Why do you think he was standing on the parapet? I understand wanting some fresh air, but it’s foolish to stand on an icy surface so high up, don’t you think?”

“I suppose…”

And just like that, all her happy thoughts vanish. If she were Merlin, what would be the first thing she’d’ve done with her newfound freedom? If she had been tortured, raped, humiliated and demeaned for a _ year_, and if she had magic that seemed like it was going to stay bound forever, what would she have done to make sure she never had to return to that tower? What would she do if she had no hope left, if she were a slave, not only to royalty, but to fear, as well?

She would have climbed atop a wall, and she would have jumped.

She’d been hoping that when he finally healed enough to awaken, that he’d smile at her, that he’d be glad to be alive. Now, she’s not so sure.

“You don’t think he…?” Leon makes a gesture with his hands, and she closes her eyes.

“Honestly, would you blame him if he did?”

“No…no, I don’t suppose I would.”

She sighs and wraps her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

“He won’t be glad to see us when he wakes up.” she says.

“No.” Leon agrees.

“We’ll just have to be patient with him, I suppose.”

Leon nods his head, and they fall silent once again. They sip their tea into the early morning light, watching the gentle rise and fall of Merlin’s chest as he heals.

* * *

He’s not expecting to feel anything, really. He was supposed to— to be _ dead. _Shouldn’t he…not be in pain anymore? Oh, unless he went to hell. 

Damn. 

Literally. 

Slowly, his eyes blink open, and his first thought is: 

_ Hell looks an awful lot like a home in the lower town… _

He hears movement somewhere in the cottage while he gathers his bearings. He means to turn his head to look around, but good gods the pain is too damn _ much. _

He lets out a quiet groan, and the footsteps stop, momentarily, before rushing toward him. His immediate reaction is to tense, but a gentle hand on his chest calms him, aided by a familiar soft voice whispering,

“Relax…you’re alright, Merlin. It’s just me.”

…Gwen?

His eyes dart up to take in her soft features; her eyebrows knitted together in concern, a mixture of relief and melancholy swimming in the depths of her dark irises. 

So, not dead then.

“What’s going on…?” he croaks. This wasn’t— this wasn’t supposed to happen! He was supposed to die!

“You fell.” she murmurs, gently sitting next to him, gingerly dabbing his forehead with a wet cloth. “Or maybe you were pushed, we don’t know. But, thank the gods, your collar broke. You survived! I’m assuming your magic saved you? I’m not entirely sure how it works, but, maybe you could tell me?”

She sounds so horribly relieved. It’s a pity he can’t share her relief, truly, because she’s trying so hard to get him to talk through the pain, to help him in any way she can, but…

“Merlin? Hey, what’s wrong?” she’s asking. 

Oh, he’s crying, isn’t he? Really, truly crying. His chest hurts with the force of the sobs that wrench themselves out of him. His face is wet, and surely it’s going to stay that way because he can’t even lift his bloody arms to wipe his eyes.

“You don’t understand.” he quavers.

“Tell me, then.” she urges. 

But how, precisely, does he tell her this? With her big brown eyes so full of concern for him, _ Merlin_, a complete and total nothing. Merlin, who supposedly had this great destiny, that’s been torn asunder by the other half of the coin himself. Merlin, who, desperate to gain control of his life, desperate to no longer be nothing more than a ‘pretty plaything’, threw himself off of the parapet in hopes that the gods would have mercy on him. 

“I didn’t fall.” it comes out half sob, half whisper. Gods does he sound pathetic. “And I wasn’t pushed.”

“Merlin…?”

“I jumped.”

Her eyes close in defeat. Gently, she grasps his hand, and doesn’t say anything for a long while.

“I know.” she whispers. “We…figured that might have been the case. Only I was hoping…I don’t know what I was hoping. I’m sorry.”

He nods, and immediately regrets the action. Gods, does that hurt.

“Who’s ‘we’?” he asks, instead of moving anymore.

“Leon and I.”

“Leon.” Merlin repeats, dubious. “The same Leon that was so sure I was a murderer until Gaius negated it?”

“No.” Gwen insists, vehemently shaking her head. “Leon, who never believed a bloody word of it.”

Then why didn’t he stop them executing Gaius? He doesn’t press the subject. He’s sure that any added stress of anger would only exacerbate his injuries.

“They’re searching for you.” Gwen reports. “Leon tried to make it look like you were murdered and dumped elsewhere, but Arthur won’t be convinced until he sees a body.”

Merlin furrows his brow at that, confused.

“Quite a lot of effort for them to put into finding a broken toy.” he spits.

“Don’t talk about yourself like that.” Gwen whispers. He barely resists the urge to roll his eyes.

“That’s what I was to them!” He insists. “I was an object, nothing more!”

She looks like she wants to say something, then seems to think better about it. This keeps happening, for several moments, and at the back of Merlin’s mind, he’s amused that she seems to be doing her best fish impression.

“If I may…” she starts. “I do believe that you’re right, but I think…I think it’s an obsession, on their part, do you understand?”

“I don’t follow.”

“Say you were, as you put it, their toy. They’re…childish, in a way. Possessive. They’re used to getting what they want. And what does a child do when his or her favourite toy goes missing?”

Oh.

_ Oh! _

“Well that’s…flattering.” 

Gwen surprises him with a snort.

“Glad to see you’re still sarcastic as ever.” she retorts.

“Ah, so you’re learning from me, too.” he says, and he can’t quite muster up the wherewithal to grin, but he feels as if the energy is there. “How proud am I.”

She looks like she’s trying very hard not to smile. Instead, she fondly rolls her eyes and stands, plopping the wet cloth on his forehead with a dull slap.

“Hush, you.” she warns playfully. 

“Nope. You got yourself into this mess. Fussy, sarcastic Merlin for however long this takes. Congratulations, you tricked yourself.”

She looks like she’s going to respond, but the door opens in that moment, and a figure rushes in, hurriedly closing the door behind him.

“Ah! Welcome back to the land of the living, mate!” Leon greets. “How are you feeling on this fine morn’?” 

“Like death warmed over.” Merlin says, flatly. Leon, of course, is the last person he wants to see, but that’s neither here nor there.

“Well, that’s to be expected, I guess.” Leon muses. “That was quite a fall, you had.” he doesn’t say it meanly, and Merlin knows he intends no offense, but he finds himself bristling, nonetheless.

“Indeed.”

“Right!” Gwen announces, clapping her hands together to call their attention away from the topic. “I’m off; duty calls. Behave, don’t call too much attention to yourselves, Leon, please take care of our patient while I’m gone, and try not to kill him, please.”

“I’m not that bad at taking care of people!” Leon defends.

“Oh, that last bit was intended for Merlin.” Gwen responds, eyebrows lifting in amusement. Merlin huffs out a laugh, that immediately turns into a groan. Laughing hurts. “Right; Merlin? Elric will be down here within the hour to look you over. Try to get some rest, okay?”

He wants to defend that he just spent gods only know how long asleep, but he offers the tiniest nod he can and murmurs,

“Yeah, okay.”

“Good lad.” she says, brightly, and he laughs again.

“Ow…Gwen…’

He totally did not whine.

(He did.)

“Right, sorry, I’ll stop making you laugh. I’ll see you later, alright? Bye, now!”

Merlin and Leon call their goodbyes after her, and fall into a long, awkward silence after the door shuts.

Merlin closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath, startling himself with the rattling in his chest. He lets out a ragged cough, and winces at the pain it causes.

“I sure did do a number on myself, eh?” he grumbles.

“I would’ve done the same.” Leon says, and Merlin looks over in a mixture of surprise and disbelief.

“Really.”

“I mean, yeah. I can’t ever imagine being in that type of situation, Merlin, I really can’t, but I think…I think I can understand where your mind was.”

“Yeah…”

“Thing is…” Leon continues. “We were brought up to believe that magic was…this terrible, dangerous thing, that it shouldn’t be trifled with. But Gwen tells me you were _ born _with it. I mean, Lady Morgana lifting the ban on magic, that was to be expected, I guess, but…I dunno, it didn’t really change my opinion.”

“Do you have a point to this?”

“Yes, sorry, I’m getting there. But…like I said, I was told that you were born with it, and I figured…it can’t be that bad if someone like you were given powers like that at birth, eh? I guess…sort of what I’m getting at…is that it must’ve been awful for you, to suddenly have to live without them. I couldn’t imagine.”

Merlin says nothing, for a long time, mulling over the knight’s words. He glances briefly at Leon, and when it seems he’s expecting an answer, he sighs, and says,

“It felt…empty.”

“Empty?”

“I just…suddenly, I didn’t have this thing, this part of me, that I’d had my whole life. I mean, imagine someone chopped your leg off, or something. It’s different, and getting around without it seems bloody impossible. And it was…lonely. When it seemed like I’d lost everything else in the world, at least I’d had my magic, at least I knew, at some point, I could turn it around for myself eventually. But it felt like…it felt like all hope was lost.”

Leon nods, slowly, seemingly drinking in his words. 

“And…you couldn’t protect yourself, which you’ve always been able to do.” he surmises.

“Yeah.” Merlin whispers. “Exactly.”

Again, it’s silent for several moments, as Leon regards him, carefully, eyes calculating. Merlin wants to shy away from his gaze, as he’s used to doing with others, but he refuses to, this time.

“We, the knights, that is, always thought you’d been born under a lucky star.” Leon finally says. Merlin snorts, at that. “I know, it sounds ridiculous, now. But you always seemed to survive such impossible odds, and we were all too blind to see you for what you truly are. You’re a warrior at heart, I hope you know this.”

“Leon—,”

“I’m not finished. Look, Gwen made me promise not to tell you about this until you were fully healed, but we need you.”

“You need me.”

“Yes, we need you. Not just me and her. Camelot needs you, Merlin.”

“I highly doubt—,”

“Would you just—? Let me finish, please.” Merlin goes silent, at that. “For about a year now, we’ve been planning a rebellion.” This time, Merlin feels his eyes go wide. “Yeah, I know. It’s…strange. But the rebels and the refugees…we don’t know how to do this, Merlin. Sure, we’re all stubborn in our own way, we all want this more than anything in the world, but the people are _ scared_. They don’t know what to do. Now Gwen and I…we’re trying our best to encourage them, but I’m not entirely sure we have what it takes.”

“You’re a knight.” Merlin points out.

“Yes, thank you for stating the obvious. But that’s just it. I’m a knight of Camelot. How can they really trust me if I’m reporting back to the castle every night?”

Oh, good point.

“They only trust me because Gwen trusts me. I…I’m not fit to be their leader, Merlin, even if I have Gwen leading them with me.”

“That’s nonsense.”

“Is it? Merlin, you inspired this bloody thing. Now I think, when you’re better, it’ll be time for me to step down, and you to step up.”

“Lead a rebellion?” Merlin demands, incredulous. “I don’t know the first thing about leading a gods forsaken army, Leon.”

“Maybe.” Leon concedes. “But you’ll have me. You can lead a rebellion, because you’re a rebellious spirit. Don’t try to tell me that you’re not. The people trust you, because you are the people, yes?”

“I…”

He hadn’t thought about that.

“Like I said. They trust me because Gwen trusts me. They trust you, because you’re like them. Not to use what happened as a way to garner support, but Merlin, you’re…the darling of the kingdom. I know you probably didn’t want your business spread about the land, but hearing your tale has gained us more allies than I can count. Yes, maybe you’ll have to show them that it is your strength that is to be admired, and not your trauma that is to be pitied, but you can do it, I know you can.”

He really, truly, does not know what to say. He stares at Leon for a long time, never having expected those words to fall from his mouth. At the back of his mind, he teases himself for mimicking Gwen’s earlier predicament, as his lips part and come back together again and again in rapid succession, but the rest of him…his mind is reeling from all that Leon told him.

His counterpart offers a gentle smile, and gingerly places a hand on his shoulder, trying his best not to hurt him.

“Think on it.” he urges. “We’ve still got plenty of time before you need to make a decision.”

“Yeah…I’ll definitely think about it.”

How could he not?

* * *

Merlin learns that he’d been unconscious for nearly two weeks. Makes sense. Had it not been for his magic, he would’ve died. He probably woke up sooner than a normal person, should they survive that fall.

Elric checks on him once a day, and marvels at his progress. It seems so unbearably slow, but the physician insists that his magic is healing him at an almost alarming pace. Within a week, he can bend his fingers and wiggle his toes, which, according to Elric is _ big news_. Good gods, if this is how _ he _heals, Merlin would hate to see how mundane folks heal. 

At night, he lays in bed and listens to the rebels talk. Gwen hadn’t been happy when she learned that Leon had told Merlin of the rebellion, but her anger was short lived. She had plans to make, after all. For several nights, he doesn’t join in, and he nearly scares a poor young man out of his wits when he finally adds to the conversation. It’s too dark to see, but he _ swears _ he sees Leon grinning at him from across the room.

“I’ve a question.” says one of the rebels, one night. “Who are we installing on the throne, if this goes well?”

“I think we’ve a ways to go before we discuss that.” Gwen responds.

“It’s a valid question.” Leon says. “A lot of our planning hinges on it, I feel like.”

“I suppose so…” Gwen murmurs, though she sounds unconvinced.

“I think it should be Leon.” the same man who’d asked the question in the first place— Faber is his name, if Merlin recalls correctly— says, with so much certainty that even Merlin finds himself agreeing. There are murmurs of agreement, but Merlin can see the shadow of Leon’s looming figure shake his head. Whether out of amusement or embarrassment, Merlin can’t tell.

“Nah. I think it should be Merlin.”

The man in question laughs (he can do that without pain, now!), because it’s obviously a joke, right? Gwen titters, but it sounds almost nervous, and the room fills with scattered chuckles.

“Yeah, right. Stop taking the piss, Leon, this is serious.” Merlin scolds, though with not as much heat as there would’ve been a week ago.

“Come on! The Warlock King of Camelot? How bloody amazing does that sound?” the funny thing is, Leon doesn’t really…sound as if he’s joking. But that wasn’t the agreement. Merlin would partner with Gwen to lead the rebellion, but he never agreed to be a king. He’s a poor country boy who grew up on a farm, and he doesn’t know the first thing about ruling a kingdom; whether or not he’d watched and learned from Arthur is neither here nor there.

“Keep dreaming.” Merlin chuckles.

“Obviously, if it’s a dream, my dreams are cleverer than the rest of you lot, but…yeah, alright, we can save this discussion for another time.”

Other than that, his days are…rather boring. He mostly sleeps, and heals. He’s in Gwen’s house alone most days, as she still has Morgana to attend to, and Leon has his duties. Eating and drinking are a right pain in the arse. He’d not been…well fed, really, and so, at least until he starts gaining his weight back and regains the use of his arms, Gwen has to lift his head for him and hold a bowl of broth to his lips, much to his chagrin. He hates this— he hates being hand fed and watered like a sick child, but he knows it’s his only option. 

Every now and then, one of the rebels will stop in to speak to him, or Gwen will stop by during lunch if she can. Leon smuggles his books out of the tower when he can, so at least he’s got reading material. He only has use of his hands, and he can’t quite lift his arms yet, but he makes it work, at least.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t grin like a fool when Leon presented him with the book Gaius had given him, all those years ago.

It’s…a melancholy thing, reading that book, and he reads it over and over again, trying in vain to feel the man’s presence, somehow, trying to remember Gaius' favourite spells, trying to remember his voice through the pages.

He sighs as he closes the book again, eyes closing against an onslaught of useless memories. It does him no good to dwell on them, now. He’s got other things to focus on, anyhow. Like how in the _ hell _ he’s going to scratch his jaw, when the ever growing stubble begins to itch. He supposes he could ask Gwen to help him shave, but while he can’t get out of bed, that seems like a rather rude thing to request. When she gets her bed back, she won’t want to be sleeping on a bed of facial hair. Yuck.

His nineteenth birthday comes and goes with little fanfare; merely because he’d asked Gwen that she didn’t make a fuss about it. She’d wanted to, that’s for damn sure. She’d wanted to cook a special dinner and invite the rebels over for something other than strategy planning, but he’d adamantly refused. It took some goading, but he’d gotten Leon on his side, too.

By then, he has the use of his arms back, so while he’s bashful about accepting the gift she’d given him, he grins as he unwraps the parcel. He smiles at her, and thanks her genuinely for the leather bracelet she’d procured for him. It’s simple, but it’s handsome, and he rather adores it, really, and immediately wraps it around his wrist.

Leon gifts him a dagger. Merlin almost laughs, because it’s ironic, isn’t it? But he knows Leon meant nothing by it. Merlin understands; he, too, is a man with not a single clue whatsoever when it comes to gift giving. When Gwen’s eyes go wide, Leon seems to understand, and hurriedly stutters out an apology. This time, Merlin does laugh, and tells him it’s quite alright. It’s an attractive piece of craftsmanship, anyway, even if he knows next to nothing about weaponry, he likes it, he does, so don’t worry about it.

As far as birthdays go, it certainly could’ve been worse.

* * *

The air about the palace is more tense than it ever had been.

At least, Gwen thinks it is. She thinks maybe it’s just her and her nerves, but one glance at the faces of the other servants, and she knows she’s not the only one who feels it. While Morgause has no qualms about the absence of Merlin, never has and never will, Morgana and Arthur are in increasingly foul moods. Morgana has shouted at Gwen more than once over trivial matters, but Gwen finds she doesn’t mind so much. So long as she’s not shouting the word _ traitor_, Gwen is content. 

And anyhow, it’s not like she cares what Morgana thinks of her, not anymore. It’s not as if they’re _ friends_. How could they be, after everything? It’s…sad, because they were once the best of friends. They shared a bond that went beyond handmaiden and mistress. But Gwen is not a fool. She knows, as well as Morgana must know, that handmaiden and mistress is all they are, now.

It should make her sad. In fact, it does, every day. The accompanying wave of vertigo and the sudden pit in her stomach every time she thinks of it won’t ever go away. And it makes her angry that Morgana doesn’t lose a bit of sleep over it. But she can ignore it. She _ needs _ to ignore it. She was the lucky one, after all. For all she knew, they could’ve set their sights on her. For all she knew, it could’ve been her locked up in a tower like a helpless princess. Only she’s not a princess. She’s a handmaiden, and not worthy of being rescued.

She forces that thought away immediately. She knows that Merlin would’ve tried his best, had the situation been reversed. Leon, too. It startles her to think that Merlin’s thought process must’ve been like that for months, and she cannot fathom that he would think himself unworthy of safety and protection. 

Morgana is still in a foul mood as Gwen attends her that day. She stomps about the palace, and Gwen likens her to an angry toddler in her own mind. Arthur is not much better. Breakfast is quiet and tense, and Gwen stays to the side with the other two servants, exchanging nervous glances with them. Molle not so much, as her mistress is usually as calm and collected as can be, but Richard on the other hand…

Gwen tries not to let a sigh overtake her. She almost feels guilty, but…not quite. It’s either the regency in horrid moods, or Merlin still locked up in his tower. Gwen is completely certain she’d prefer the former.

She stops by Elric’s chambers that afternoon, and is immediately grateful for a change in atmosphere. The rest of the palace is dark and dreary, and everyone scuttles about to avoid the brooding royals. Elric, however, seems to be in a much happier state, flitting about and humming to himself as he works. He grins brightly at Gwen as she walks in, and gives her a cheerful greeting.

“I’m glad someone’s in a good mood today.” she says. “How was Merlin this morning?”

She’d been up and out the door before he’d awaken, stopping only to set out something for him to eat and to place a kiss on his brow. It’s all so frightfully domestic, and she won’t dwell too long on the fact that she seems awfully fond of kissing him, be it on the cheek or the nose or the forehead. He says nothing of it, but she’s sure she’s only imagining it when he leans into the soft touch of her lips. 

Leon teases her about it _ endlessly_.

“Oh, wonderful!” Elric responds, clapping his hands together in delight. “Just absolutely wonderful.”

Despite herself, Gwen’s heart soars.

“Good!” she says, and her face hurts from the force of her grin. “Oh, I’m so glad. How much progress has he made?”

His smile turns conspiratorial then, and he shrugs.

“That’s for you to find out later. Merlin wanted it to be a surprise.”

Of course he did. Shaking her head, and trying not to let her fondness show too much, Gwen says,

“Not surprising. I’m just…mostly I’m glad that his humour is coming back, little by little.”

“That…is also a remarkable recovery, I must say.” Elric agrees, suddenly serious. “I’m not entirely convinced that he’s not putting on an act, you know? One’s body may heal just fine, but the human mind…sometimes the damage to a person’s consciousness is irreversible.”

That makes a lot of sense. Wounds heal, but a person never forgets, no matter how hard they try. It seems stupid that, as a species, people tend to remain in the negative. She, too, is guilty of it. No matter how hard she tries to remain positive, no matter how she tries to stay rooted to good memories of her family, sometimes it seems she can only remember how her father died, or how she hasn’t seen Elyan in years. 

“Still…I think you’re having quite an effect on him.” Elric continues.

“Me?” Gwen laughs, incredulous. “How so? I’m just…doing what a friend would do.” Elric gives her a look she can’t quite decipher, and lets out a quiet chuckle.

“You’re all he talks about, when you’re not around. He’s rather fond of you. Always has been, I presume.”

That’s just ridiculous.

Merlin is nothing more than her best friend, and she his.

Instead of voicing all this, she playfully rolls her eyes at the physician and tries to sound as put-upon as she can as she sighs at him.

“Honestly.”

“You don’t have to believe me.” Elric says, “I’m just stating what Leon and I have observed.”

Leon. Of course. She swears, if he doesn’t stop meddling…

Regardless, she wonders what was so great that Merlin wanted to surprise her. It remains on her mind for the rest of the evening, to the point where she doesn’t mind Morgana’s mood and her scowls; Gwen is as happy as could be.

“You’re awfully smiley.” Morgana points out, as Gwen readies her for bed. Though she sounds casual, and says it with a (fake) smile, Gwen understands it to be the accusation that it is. “Something I should know about? Or someone, perhaps?”

Gwen stamps down the panic rising within her. Surely she can’t know about Merlin. Or…can’t she? Who else would Someone be? Offering a shrug as she turns down the linens, she responds with,

“Nothing and no-one in particular. Just…had a good day is all.” she offers a sympathetic look, and continues, “It was a lovely day. Sun shining, and it’s getting warmer; I suppose the flowers will be blooming soon. Did it not lift your spirits all, My Lady?”

Morgana looks like she very much wants to scowl at her, but, to her credit, quickly schools her features into a teasing grin.

“Are you certain there’s no…suitor, Gwen?”

“If there is, he’s certainly escaped my attention.”

“Not even perhaps…a certain knight?”

She can’t help it; Gwen bursts out in laughter, real laughter, at the implication. It’s almost impossible to regain her composure, but she pulls herself together, wiping tears from her eyes and catching her breath.

“Surely you don’t mean Leon?”

“Am I wrong in my assumption?”

“I should rather hope so. Leon and I…are childhood friends, nothing more.” 

To think that he should harbour any romantic feelings for her! 

Gods, just wait until she tells Merlin.

“I just noticed that you two seem to be spending…an awful lot of time together. I thought perhaps you two might be…courting.”

Gwen knows that she didn’t mean courting. And quite suddenly, all her amusement vanishes. The absolute nerve!

“Surely not.” Gwen sighs, still feigning amusement. “Besides. Knights don’t court handmaidens, My Lady.”

“Indeed…” Morgana murmurs, eyes calculating as she rakes them over Gwen’s form. The maid feels…exposed, somehow, and maybe it’s just because she’s seen the tower room, and heard of what she did to Merlin through rumours, but it feels to Gwen like Morgana is thinking of all the ways she could force the truth out of her.

Gwen holds back a shudder.

They’re silent for several minutes, as Gwen continues about her duties. It’s when Morgana’s put her nightdress on, and is about to slip under the covers that she asks,

“You and Merlin…you were rather close, weren’t you?”

“I don’t know about _ close_, but he was my friend.” and that’s the gods’ honest truth.

“You don’t seem…all too troubled about his disappearance.”

Oh.

Oh dear.

Gwen, forcing a smile, responds with,

“He’s Merlin. I’m sure he’ll turn up just fine. He always does, doesn’t he?”

“So you don’t believe that he’s dead?”

How in the _ hell _ does she get herself out of this?

“I can only…remain optimistic.” she says, hesitantly. “There was no body, was there? There’s still a small chance that he could be out there, somewhere. We just…have to remain hopeful, yeah?”

Morgana, though she doesn’t seem totally convinced, merely nods, and excuses Gwen for the night.

She’s calm enough as she leaves Morgana’s chambers, but the moment she’s down the hall, she races out of the palace, down through the lower town and to her home. She stays just outside the door for several moments, willing away the panic that’s settled itself into her mind, and trying her best to slow her racing heart. With a sigh, she straightens herself out, slips into her home.

Merlin is where he’s always been, quietly chatting away with Leon, who sits next to the bed in the chair. They seem awfully amused by something, exchanging teasing barbs in the way they do, and Gwen delights in the fact that for once, Merlin’s smile seems to reach his eyes.

They don’t seem to have noticed her quiet entry, and continue on as they are. And, nearly out of nowhere, Gwen realises: she loves her boys. She really, truly does. Just seeing them has put her at ease, and she can’t help but smile softly at the sight of them.

“Good evening, you two.” she greets, and when they look over to her and smile, her heart swells. “Elric tells me you had a good day, Merlin.”

“Oh, indeed.” he says. He exchanges a glance with Leon, the same conspiratorial look she’d gotten from Elric earlier in the day, and Leon says,

“We’ve got something to show you.”

She feels not unlike a doting mother, whose sons have drawn her a picture or made her a necklace and they can’t wait to show her. Only…that doesn’t seem quite right, either. When she thinks about it, it seems like something else entirely.

“Well, do go on then.” she encourages.

She knows Merlin’s been making incredible progress in the last few weeks, but what she’s not expecting him to have, is the strength to push himself up. But here he is, bracing himself on his arms and sitting up like he was never unable to do so.

“Oh!” Gwen exclaims. “Oh, Merlin, that’s wonderful!” she’s about to dash over, when he holds up a hand to stop her.

“Just wait.” he says, seemingly unable to keep his grin contained.

And by the gods, he’s standing. He’s _ standing _ all on his own! Well, not quite. He still needs to lean on Leon for support, but he’s doing it! Gwen could just about cry out of sheer joy.

“Oh my goodness!” this time, they let her run over.

“Isn’t this great?” Leon asks, clasping a hand on her shoulder. She barely hears him, instead moving in to wrap her arms around Merlin and hug him as close as she possibly can. One arm still around Leon’s shoulder for support, he hugs her back as much as he’s able. It’s an odd sort of huddle between the three, but Gwen’s soul sings, nonetheless. 

“Oh, Merlin, I’m so proud of you.” she murmurs into his chest. There’s a soft pressure atop Gwen’s head that she can’t quite define, but when Merlin smiles against her hair and murmurs his quiet thanks, she knows she’ll be feeling the kiss he placed there for days to come.

* * *

Merlin finds that, although he still can’t walk properly without help, he’s rather proud of himself, too. Gwen had promised that when he’s healed enough, she’d take him to Ealdor. So he wills his body to heal faster, and he urges his magic on to help, so he can see his mother, and his village.

He’s more than happy to be able to get out of bed. Faber drops a walking stick off for him, to help him get around, for which he is eternally grateful. He may not be able to leave Gwen’s house, no, but at least he can move about. He finally shaves, and triumphantly, albeit awkwardly, sweeps up the remains. Gwen had even promised to cut his hair for him.

He’s been waiting for this moment for a long time. He wants to do something nice for her, given that she was so damn patient with him. All the times he was cranky from the pain he was in, all the times she’d had to clean up after him (and he will _ not _ get into that, thank you _ very _much), and she still never gave up on him. He’s not sure what he really can do. He supposes he could wait for one of the rebels, or for Elric to drop by so he can send them out with what little money he still possesses to gather the things he needs for a nice meal…

Yeah. Yeah! He can do that. And in the meantime, he can clean the house for her. Yes, he likes this plan. He sets to work diligently, supporting himself on his walking stick and on nearby surfaces. He wishes desperately to be able to leave and find…flowers or something for her. He’s not…entirely sure that cooking her dinner and cleaning her house will express his gratitude the way he wants to.

He can never thank her enough, that’s for sure.

Elric looks like he very much wants to scold Merlin for pushing himself too hard when he walks in that afternoon, but holds his tongue. The strangest look passes over his face when Merlin tells him what his plans are, like he’s trying very hard not to grin, or like he was just proven correct and won a bet.

“That’s very sweet of you, Merlin.” he says. “I’ll be right back, then.”

And so, like Merlin asks, he comes back with the ingredients, and hovers while Merlin finishes the cleaning. It’s not until Merlin insists that he’s fine, and almost physically has to shove him out of the house, that the physician concedes and heads off.

Dinner is nothing special, really. Merely a simple stew, that Merlin really hopes tastes as good as it smells. Satisfied, he sits at the table with one of his books, hoping to pass the time until she returns. It occurs to him that he could’ve used a spell to clean her house.

He could’ve always done that. Idiot.

With a groan, he drops his head against his book and bangs it once, twice, three times, before he straightens back up. This is fine. This is good. He’s not a hopeless disaster, after all.

Well, no, he’s always been that.

Still.

His self deprecating musings are cut short when the door swings open, and Gwen steps inside, looking bone tired.

“You would not _ believe _ the day I had.” she’s muttering as she hangs her cloak.

“Run you ragged, did they?”

“That’s an understatement. I swear to the gods above, if Arthur throws one more temper tantrum, I’m going to—,”

She stops short as she finally turns around, and takes in the sight of her house, and of Merlin at the table. She says nothing, and her face is unreadable for a long while. Just when Merlin thinks he’s done something wrong, she moves forward, sets her basket on the table and presses a kiss to his temple.

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t beaming.

“Did you do all this yourself?” she asks. 

“Faber helped.” he lies, not wanting her to be cross with him for pushing himself too hard. “I just…” he can feel himself grimace in thought as he tries to come up with the words, and quickly schools his features, placing his hand atop hers where it rests on the table. “I wanted to say thank you, for being so bloody patient with me. I…it’s not much, and I don’t know if I can ever thank you enough, but—,”

“Merlin.” she interrupts, and has he mentioned how lovely her smile is? “You’re so incredibly sweet. Thank you.” 

“Oi, I was supposed to be thanking you.”

“Old habits. What smells so good?”

Her grin is absolutely blinding when she sets her sights on the stew, and Merlin feels…strange, as he gets up to gather the bowls. Strange in a good way, that is.

Gwen regales him of the day she had, and, though it’s a very interesting story, he only half listens, and laughs where he’s supposed to, and hums in sympathy where he’s supposed to. He can’t really focus, as he’s found himself rather busy musing on what they’re doing, here and now.

It’s all so…domestic, he decides.

And that’s just it, isn’t it? That’s the day he’s had. _ That _ is the feeling he couldn’t decipher all day as he did the housework for her. He felt rather a lot like a devoted husband, trying his best to impress his wife with finished chores and supper on the table when she came home.

They’ve been like that for…quite a while, he realises.

He hasn’t said anything out loud to her about the kisses she gives him, mainly because he doesn’t want them to stop. They’re soft, and they’re sweet, and they’re affectionate, and Merlin feels he’s rather justified in wanting them to continue, as he’d been starved for affection for quite a long time. There’s something else to that, though, something else he dare not name.

But if he’s honest with himself, he doesn’t mind at all. If he looks deep enough, he finds that…he _ likes _ the domesticity. It feels normal, and safe, and he never wants it to end.

Gwen demands that she do the clearing up, since he did everything else. She doesn’t listen to his protests, and tells him to sit down, because she’s going to do it, Merlin, and that’s final. He finds that it’s impossible to argue with her anyway, and does as he’s told, going back to his book, listening to the sound of her humming as she works.

He looks up just as she’s walking over to the privacy screen, undoing the lacing on her dress as she goes. Curiously, he watches as her fingers deftly move about the fabric, as the lacing falls apart with practised ease. She disappears behind the screen just as a hint, and nothing more than that, of skin peeks out.

Merlin physically shakes himself out of his stupor, face burning.

_ ‘Down, Merlin.’ _ he tells himself. _ ‘She’s your best friend. Don’t insult her virtue by thinking of her in such a way.’ _

A welcome distraction comes in the form of Leon, bursting into Gwen’s (their) house and barely refraining from slamming the door behind him.

“Evening.” Merlin greets, without looking up from his book. “You hungry? There’s still stew left.”

“Where’s Gwen?” Leon asks instead of answering, and at the breathless quality to his voice, Merlin glances up, startled. Leon’s eyes are wild, and his face is red, as if he’d sprinted all the way from the palace. He might’ve done, for all Merlin knows.

“I’m right here.” Gwen says, as she rounds the corner in her nightdress. “Good gods, Leon, what happened?”

“You two need to leave, as soon as possible.” Leon breathes. “Arthur…I don’t know how he found out, but he’s on his way here! You need to go!”

“How…in the hell did he find out?” Merlin demands.

“I just said, I don’t know!” Leon barks, and covers his mouth to keep himself from shouting again. “Look, you guys need to leave.”

“Well we can’t just up and leave.” Gwen counters. “It’s an admission of guilt!”

“Yeah, and you know what else is? Merlin sitting right here in the middle of your bloody _ house!_”

He’s got a point.

Gwen’s eyes dart around her house for a moment. It’s hopeless, Merlin figures. All his books are strewn about, and there’s quite a bit of evidence of his presence. He knows that it’s hopeless for them to try and leave right this very second. Arthur will be here any moment, and they’ll surely be caught.

“Gwen, I’ll go out the backdoor.” he says. “Leon, if you wouldn’t mind helping me?” when Leon nods, he takes a quick, deep breath and continues, “I’ll hide. It’ll be just as easy. If Morgana’s with him, I’ll be in trouble, but I doubt as much. She’ll want to feign ignorance so Gwen’s still on her side. Gwen, when he arrives, act as if he’s woken you, yeah? And Leon, you act as if you already came looking and found nothing. Sound good to everyone?”

He swears he can hear Arthur and his men coming closer. When his companions nod, Merlin whispers an incantation, that, in all honesty is chaotic, but it rids all traces of his existence from the room, anyhow. The books are neatly put on a shelf, hiding in plain sight, but spines facing in just in case, and the candles are blown out. Clothes, not that he had much anyway, find their way into his hands. 

With that, he leans on Leon for support, careful to hold his walking stick in a way that doesn’t drag across the floor and make noise, and the pair leave as quietly as they can out the back door. Frantically, he looks about for a place to hide. The gods are on his side, it seems, as there’s a barrel just outside the house next door. Not the most comfortable of hiding places, and he notes that is smells rather horrid as Leon helps him into it and closes the lid. No matter, he’s endured worse.

Eyes squeezed shut, Merlin offers a silent prayer to the gods that his plan works, as a fist pounds on Gwen’s door, and Arthur’s voice demands that she open up.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed! next chapter we shall see our intrepid rebels escape, and continue to heal from The Bullshit(tm)
> 
> see y'all next week :D


	5. Like Bandits in the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Arthur sent away, the trio decides to make a run for it while they still can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YEET okay so this one is a bit shorter than the others. it's...kind of a filler chapter? I mean there are major plot points, but...eh, you'll see. I struggled a bit with this one. 
> 
> TW: Death

“Well, as you can see, he’s not here.” Gwen says, for the millionth time that night. She wants to go to _ bed_, and Arthur has torn her house apart. Her nice, clean house, that Merlin spent so long tidying up. “And he never was. My Lord, really, it’s late. You should get some rest. Perhaps if you continue your search in daylight—,”

“He will be long gone by daylight.” Arthur grumbles.

“Are you sure?” Gwen asks him. “If he was uninjured, do you think he’d stay here? If he had the strength to, I reckon he would’ve fled weeks ago.”

He stares at her, for a long time. She’s not sure what it is, but she refuses to shy under his gaze. She won’t admit guilt by glancing away, and she won’t try to trick him into thinking that he and his sister have her under their spell. So, she stares right back, unyielding, and triumphs when he’s the first to look away.

“I suppose.” he mumbles. He hesitates a moment, but calls his men off anyway. “I’m…sorry.”

She knows for a fact that he didn’t mean it. Not in the mood to accept his apology, but knowing she must, she says,

“Well. You were under the incorrect assumption that I would betray you and the Lady Morgana based on a rumour, and you destroyed my house and disrupted my sleep, but, I suppose it makes sense. Goodnight, My Lord.”

She knows it’s a terrible idea to slam the door after him, but she can’t resist the temptation.

Several minutes pass before the back door opens again, and Merlin limps back in.

“Well that seemed like a lot of fun. Shame I couldn’t join in.”

“Well, he’ll certainly be back. He didn’t seem entirely convinced.”

Merlin sighs deeply, pushes a hand through his hair.

“Didn’t think so. I don’t suppose I can hide in a barrel again.”

“No, I don’t suppose you can…”

There’s really only one alternative.

They have to leave tonight. It’s rushed and chaotic, but so is their life, in all honesty.

They set to work gathering their supplies in the dark. They can’t carry much, and Merlin tries his very best to not let his disappointment show when he realises he has to leave most of his books behind. Gwen, though she can barely see him, tries not to giggle at the pout that is, no doubt, souring his features. While his back is turned, she grabs the one she knows he prizes most, easily knowing where it is in the darkness, having memorised the feel of the cover and the delicate pages by heart.

Like she’d ever make him leave a gift from Gaius behind. 

They freeze when the door opens, both of them terrified that Arthur had changed his mind and turned around, bursting in to catch them in the act.

It’s only Leon, carrying an extra sword wrapped up in what seems to be a cloak.

“Ah, so you two had the same idea, then.” he sounds like he wants to be happy, but exhaustion weighs him down. “Merlin, put this on. Gwen do you have a blade, by chance?”

“Yeah, I kept one.”

“Good.”

Hurriedly, Merlin fits the sheath on his belt, shoving the sword in, and dons the cloak. Gwen knows she very well can’t travel in the nightdress she’s wearing, and, though she doesn’t want to waste precious time, flutters behind the privacy screen to change into her traveling clothes. By the time she comes back out, Merlin and Leon have finished their preparations. One of the packs is handed to her, and she slips it on.

“Ready?” She asks.

“I’ve been ready for this for a year.” Merlin answers.

She can relate.

“Right. Off we go, then.”

The trio slips silently from the cottage, and makes their way down the street. A journey that used to seem so simple and short, feels like it’s going to last for ages. They’re out _ long _ past curfew, with, for all intents and purposes, a fugitive, and there are guards on every corner. Added onto the fact that Merlin still needs his walking stick to get around, for the time being.

They say nothing, as they walk. Merlin’s free hand finds hers, and gives it a reassuring squeeze. She squeezes back, nervously. One wrong move and they’re screwed. She’s just thinking that they’ve got luck on their side, that they’re home free as they near the forest, and she walks faster, gripping Merlin’s hand in her own. 

But someone gives a shout, and she knows they’ve been caught. Their reactions are immediate; Leon shouts, 

“Run!”

As Gwen drops Merlin’s hand, instead yanking his arm around her shoulders. Merlin drops his walking stick, and throws his other arm around Leon’s. In the light of the full moon (and really, did it have to be a full moon tonight, of all nights?) she can see the frustration clearly on his face, knowing he’s slowing them down and not being able to do a damn thing about it.

Nevertheless, Gwen supports him as best she can as she begins to sprint. It’s haphazard and awkward, and they can hear a cluster of guards gaining on them. Merlin stops suddenly, almost causing them to fall.

“Merlin!” Gwen hisses. “We have to go!”

He doesn’t seem to hear her. Instead, he turns, raises an arm, and shouts something in a harsh language she doesn’t understand. His eyes flash golden, and with a sudden wave of energy, their pursuers are on the ground, motionless. Just as suddenly as he stopped, he starts moving again, giving Gwen no time to comprehend that she’s seen him use his magic for the first time since his collar came off. Funny, that. Maybe he was so accustomed to not using it that he just— didn’t. Or maybe he didn’t want to frighten her. Whatever the case, she has no time to stop and think on it, as they rush into the thicket.

They’re making an awful lot of noise. Anybody would be able to find them soon. And Arthur, being the best tracker in the Five Kingdoms (or so she’s been told), will be able to follow their tracks, but they won’t slow down, can’t slow down, until the shouts die down and they know they’re not being followed anymore. 

Despite Merlin’s efforts, the wave of guards, the ones that hadn’t been reached by his magic, still gain. If they don’t do something quickly, if they don’t find a place to hide, they’re absolutely fucked. They’re going to get caught, they’re _ going to get caught— _

It’s Leon that stops this time.

“Leon, what are you doing!?” Merlin whispers, and oh how Gwen hates the panic in his voice.

“I’ll hold them off.” Leon says. “You go, I’ll catch up with you.”

“Leon!” 

But it’s no use. He’s gone, sprinting back in the direction they came from. Helplessly, they stare after their friend, until Gwen finds it within her to urge Merlin on.

He seems to be trying to put as much pressure on his legs as he can, so Gwen doesn’t have to carry his weight, and she can hear him wincing in pain. This is hopeless. She’s not strong enough, and he’s not healed enough.

But somehow, _ somehow_, they make it. The frightful sounds they’d been running from grow quieter, and quieter, until neither of them can hear them. Merlin drops to the ground, exhausted, and Gwen can sympathise. They know better than to make a fire, despite the chill of the late-winter, early-spring night. They’ll just have to make do, she supposes.

If they lay in the thicket, perhaps nobody will find them. Perhaps—

“Come here.” Merlin whispers. Curious, she sits beside him and tilts her head.

“What is it?”

She’s not expecting (surprisingly) strong arms to wrap around her, to pull her into an embrace that seems far too intimate.

“We’ve got to keep warm.”

His breath tickles his hair. She’ll tell herself that she shivers from the cold.

“If we don’t find somewhere to hide, they’ll find us by morning.”

Merlin goes still for a moment. She doesn’t want to ask him to move so soon, but—

He whispers something in that language she couldn’t understand before, and she can’t…see it, but she can feel the affects. It doesn’t stave off the cold completely, so she’s sure that the purpose of the spell wasn’t for that. Curiously, she asks,

“What did you do?”

“Nobody will find us, Gwen,” he assures. “Trust me.”

Still a little confused, but satisfied, Gwen nods.

“Yeah. Yeah, alright. Thank you.”

Somehow, she falls asleep that night. But that might have to do with the fact that her head is resting on a firm chest, Merlin’s heartbeat in her ear and his strong hands on her back lulling her into a dreamless slumber.

* * *

Leon glances at the weak light of the dawn as it streams in through the window.

He hasn’t talked, and he doesn’t plan to.

It’s been _ hours_, he knows, and he can feel his body start to give up. Still, he smiles up at Morgana, taking great delight in it when she _ seethes_.

“I’ll ask you one more time, Leon.” she growls, nails digging into his cheek as she holds his head up. Does she really not realise, that the more she treats him the way she undoubtedly treated Merlin, the less inclined he is to answer her? “_Where _did they go?”

“Fine…fine, you win. Come closer.”

She positively gleams as she moves in, certain of her victory.

“I…don’t…know.”

Maybe he’s gone mad, but he finds himself laughing, even while he screams in pain. Laughing, because his friends are safe, because while the war has just begun, the Revolution has won the first battle.

* * *

Merlin wakes up in a curious state, the next morning. His back is cold from having slept on the ground, but there’s a warm presence atop his chest, and something resting over his waist. He blinks his bleary eyes open, and the first thing he sets his sights on is a mess of curly hair.

Oh.

_ Oh, _right. He remembers now. He and Gwen had huddled together for warmth in the night. He knows they should get moving, but he doesn’t…want to move exactly. Gwen lay, still asleep, half on top of him, her head resting on his chest, her leg thrown over his waist. Her face is titled just so, and her breath tickles his neck a little. Curiously, he notes that her fingers will twitch every so often in her sleep.

He doesn’t want to rouse her, but they need to get going.

“Gwen…” he calls, softly. “Gwen, wake up.” Her eyebrows furrow a bit, and if anything, she cuddles in closer. “Gwen, come on.” Merlin laughs. “We’ve got to get a move on.”

“No…” it comes out as a whine, and it’s strange, because Merlin has not once heard anything akin to a whine coming from her lips.

He shakes his head, and lays it against the ground. A few more minutes wouldn’t hurt, right? He knows that Leon would tease the everloving—,

Wait a moment.

Merlin bolts upright, and he almost feels bad for disturbing Gwen, but as he glances around, he can see no sign of Leon, who was supposed to catch up with them. He supposes that he could’ve passed them by, as Merlin had spelled them out of view (well, not quite out of view, but they look different to passersby at least), but something doesn’t sit right with him.

“What’s happened?” Gwen asks around a yawn. “Is something wrong?”

“Leon never caught up with us.”

It seems like it takes a moment to sink in, but when it does, Gwen sits up fully, and glances around just as he had.

“This is bad, isn’t it?”

“Well it certainly can’t be good.”

“D’you think maybe he just passed over us?” she asks, unknowingly mirroring his logic from only moments ago.

“I don’t know…maybe? I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Gwen.”

She stands, and rubs her face. She paces for several seconds, chewing on her nails.

“Reckon we should go back for him…?”

It’s a terrible, terrible idea, but…

“It’s risky, but…maybe? I— I don’t want to leave him behind.”

“No, neither do I.” She pulls the hood of her cloak over her head, and hides their packs for them to come back for later. “When will that spell wear off?”

Merlin shrugs in response, pulling himself up to his feet.

“Whenever I want it to. But we should still use caution. It’s an illusion, but if we’re not careful we could still be caught.”

She nods slowly, and takes a deep breath.

“Right, right…do you think you can walk?”

He had pushed himself rather hard last night, and his legs scream in protest, but he should be fine.

“I think I can manage.” he looks around for his walking stick, and remembers with no small amount of agitation that he’d dropped it when they ran last night. No matter, so he’ll walk with a limp. He’ll be fine.

Right?

Silently, they begin their walk back to the citadel. Merlin can feel the nervous energy coming off Gwen in waves, so in an attempt to calm her nerves, he takes his hand in hers, much like he’d done last night. This time, however, she laces their fingers together, gripping his hand with near bruising force. He doesn’t mind. It distracts him from his near inability to walk. Why did his legs heal slower than his back, anyway?

Nobody pays them a passing glance as they enter the city once more. Hoods pulled over their heads, magic surrounding them, they look like nothing more than passing strangers. Still, they keep their heads down, lest someone see through the deception and recognise them.

They hear the drums at the same time. Exchanging a glance, they hurry to the courtyard, and Merlin’s heart squeezes in his chest when he sees the block, and the axe. Gods, but do they get that set up quickly.

“Please, please, don’t let it be him…” Gwen murmurs, seemingly to herself. Merlin can sympathise. Giving her hand a squeeze, he glances around for the poor sod who’s meant to lose his head, this morning. Good gods does he hope he’s wrong when he catches sight of blond curls. But he knows, even before Gwen gasps in horror next to him, that it’s him. It’s Leon. Leon, who was captured last night. Leon, who refused to tell them anything, and Leon, who they’re executing. He smiles like a madman, and Merlin doesn’t understand. Though, he supposes he faced Death with a smile, himself.

The circumstances are different and similar all at once.

He watches, helpless for a moment, as Leon kneels, head on the block, executioner holding the axe at the ready.

“I have to do something.” he whispers.

“No!” Gwen hisses. “Merlin, we can’t call any attention to ourselves!”

“But we have to help him!”

He takes a step forward, but Gwen holds him back again. He turns around, intent on telling her that there’s no way she’s stopping him, but he freezes at the look on her face, at the unshed tears shining in her eyes.

“Gwen, I…we can’t just watch him die.”

“Merlin, I don’t know what else to do.”

He hates this. He hates feeling like this. He’d been under the impression that he was done being helpless, that he was done doing nothing.

But he knows that Gwen is right.

What _ can _he do?

Nothing. Absolutely…nothing.

Arthur’s words are drowned out by the ringing in Merlin’s ears, as he addresses the subjects. Merlin has always wondered about that. Why do so many people show up for an execution? The more grisly, the more show up. Perhaps it’s morbid curiosity.

Strange, that.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

Merlin shivers. How often had he heard that from Morgana? To hear it again now, even not directed at him...

“Only one thing.” Leon shouts back, and he’s still grinning like a bloody fool. If anything, his smile widens. “Long live the Revolution!”

Infuriated, Arthur gives the order with a harsh snap of his arm. Gwen turns and hides her face in Merlin’s shoulder as the axe is brought down with a resounding _ thud_, and another sound Merlin finds it best to ignore. He _ swears _ he smells Leon’s blood from where they stand. Unsure what to say, unsure what to do, and unable to take his eyes off the lifeless form of their friend, Merlin places a hand on the back of Gwen’s neck, not knowing how else to comfort her.

_ ‘Okay, Leon.’ _ he thinks. _ ‘You said it. Long live the Revolution.’ _

Leon had said that it had been in honour of Merlin, in the beginning.

Now, he knows, and he knows that Gwen knows, that it’s in honour of their fallen friend.

_ ‘I promise, Leon. I swear to the gods above that you’ll be avenged.’ _

* * *

They journey in silence for a long time.

They don’t know what to say, or how to say it. And Gwen doesn’t know how to express her grief. Merlin had held her while she cried that first afternoon, and they didn’t move from where they sat in the forest for several hours. They knew they had to, but the shock of it all crippled them both.

Merlin doesn’t seem to know what to say to her, and she doesn’t know what to say to him, either. Leon had been his friend, too. His face had been unreadable, stony and expressionless. Part of her doesn’t understand how he keeps his composure so well, but part of her thinks that maybe this is how he dealt with things, in his tower. To not show his emotions, is to not give power to his tormentors.

Gwen doesn’t tell him that she needn’t be that way with him. It’s habit, isn’t it? And if it helps him, even in a small way, she won’t take it away from him.

It doesn’t help that they’re constantly on edge, terrified that they’ll be discovered and dragged back to Camelot kicking and screaming.

They’re meant to go to Ealdor, but how can they? That’ll be the first place they’ll be searched for. Instead, they leave a false trail in the opposite direction, and decide it’d be best to hide for a few days.

By pure chance, they stumble upon a cave, four days in. It’s not ideal, but it’s hidden enough, and at least they’ll be able to get a fire going. Still, they barely breathe a word to each other. Still unsure what to say, and still unsure what to do.

Merlin’s still not fully healed, Gwen knows. He tries to hide it, but he still walks with a noticeable limp. Briefly, she wonders if a person’s emotional state has anything to do with how fast their body heals. It seemed to go a lot faster when he was, y’know, relatively happy.

So they hide. And they wait. And Merlin heals.

It’s Gwen that breaks the silence first. They try to use their supplies sparingly, but their waterskins are getting close to empty, and they’re almost out of food, and she needs to find some for them. She almost laughs bitterly at the thought. The two of them, of all people, gathering berries to eat like hermits. Maybe trapping a rabbit or two, if they’re lucky.

She tells him she’ll be right back, and insists he stay and hold down the fort when he wants to go with. It’s not that she doesn’t want his company, it’s just…she needs to be alone for a while.

She takes her time with it. It’s foolish to think that she can be so leisurely with this, but she can’t muster the energy to move any faster than she does. When she finds a stream and fills their waterskins, she sits by it, long after they’re full, for a long while. She doesn’t want to be as sad as she is, and she wants to keep moving forward. Leon gave his life to the cause. So had Jacob, and Amis. He’d died…a hero, and he’d died protecting his friends.

_ “Long live the Revolution!” _

It hadn’t seemed real, until that moment. Nobody had said those words until he did. No, he may not be the first to die for it, but he’s the first to say it aloud, to kneel before a crowd of people and say: _ This is what I’m giving my life for, and I’m proud. _

So Gwen doesn’t want to be sad. She wants to cut herself off, and tell herself that casualties are inevitable in war.

But he was her _ friend. _He was one of her best friends, since childhood. They bickered and they teased each other, they planned this gods forsaken rebellion together. So while she doesn’t want to mourn him, while she wants to glorify him as the wonderful man she was, she can’t help it. She’d loved him intensely. Platonically, but intensely all the same. And he was gone in an instant.

Sitting by the water, she weeps, for the first time since the day of his death. Not a week has gone by, but it feels like it was ages ago, and like it was minutes ago all at the same time. She weeps, until her chest hurts, until she’s gasping for air and there are no tears left to shed. Even then, the sobs still wrack her body, and she doesn’t know how long she’s sitting there, only acknowledging at the back of her mind that she has to get back soon. Merlin will be worried, for certain.

“It’s alright to mourn him, you know.”

She flinches at the sudden voice, and whirls around. Seeing it’s only Merlin, she wipes her eyes and turns back to stare at the water, knowing he’ll join her.

“How did you find me?” she murmurs, knees pulled up to her chest.

“I followed you; didn’t fancy sitting about in a cave all by myself.” he sounds almost sheepish. Leaves crunch under his boots as he moves closer. She says nothing, merely nods, as he sits next to her. “You heard what I said though, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, I heard you.”

“And do you believe me?”

She opens her mouth to say yes, of course she does, but she could never lie to him.

“I don’t want to.” she says. “I don’t want to mourn him. And I know he wouldn’t want us to mourn him, either.”

“Oh, is that a fact?” a long sigh escapes him, and he leans back on his hands. “Why don’t you want to mourn him, then? Is it because…he died a hero’s death, and you think we should celebrate him? Because you’re angry with him for getting caught?”

“Of course I’m not angry with him!”

“Well, I am. And I’m…incredibly sad that he’s gone. So damn what he wants. I don’t think he gets a say anymore.”

She knows he doesn’t mean to be so harsh, but something about that has her bristling.

“Merlin—,”

“They didn’t let me mourn Gaius.”

“I know…”

“And after I’d gained my freedom, I couldn’t anymore. It was like this space in my heart had been empty for so long that it would just remain there, forever. But I couldn’t bring myself to be…sad. And I don’t think that’s a good thing, because I could barely remember anything about him, good or bad. All I feel is…numb. And that’s not a pleasant feeling.

“All I’m saying is…let yourself be sad, Gwen. Seriously…if you shove all this down, you’re going to regret it. I’m going to let myself be angry with him, and I’m going to let myself be sad about his loss. If we mourn him now, if we work through our initial grief…well, I reckon it’ll be easier to celebrate him later on.”

They hadn’t looked at each other the whole time, opting to stare at the clear water of the stream. But as Gwen looks to him now, she can see his eyes shining with unshed tears, and she’s startled by the realisation that she did, indeed, have some of her own left. It’s not the violent fit she’d had before his arrival, but it’s silent, her face tickling as moisture drips down it. Taking a shaky breath, she asks,

“When did you get so wise, eh?”

He looks to her then, and his expression is…strange. His watery smile is sad and beautiful, melancholic. He offers a shrug, and the moment the first tear rolls from his eye, she surges toward him, wrapping her arms around him with such force, she fears she might actually hurt him. She doesn’t, of course, and he holds her back, arms tight around her like he’s afraid to let go.

It’s not unlike when he held her on that first dreadful day, but…it seems entirely different, too. It’s not just him comforting her, and it’s not just her comforting him, either. It’s Them, and they’re there for each other, and they’re holding each other, and they’re both crying, and it’s raw, and _ real. _

And Gwen feels, for the first time since Leon died, lighter, somehow. She feels as if a great weight has been taken off her chest, like now she can move without a sense of lethargy, like she can actually wake up and move forward in the morning without forcing herself to.

She feels as if they’ve made Leon proud.

* * *

Merlin knows they shouldn’t hide out too long. He gains his strength back by the day, so they can leave whenever the hell they want to, and he shudders to think about what might be going on outside the safety of their cave. Still, Gwen refuses to go anywhere until she’s certain that Merlin is completely healed. There’s no fooling her, either.

He’s finished with sitting around and doing nothing, regardless. He needs _ something _ to do, aside from think about how horrible Leon’s death was and wonder what his mother is up to, or if she’s even safe. He paces like a caged animal often, unsure what to do with himself.

He’s irritated to find that he needs to shave again, and can’t. He very well couldn’t take a razor with him, frivolous object that it was, and his jaw itches something fierce most of the time. He can’t bring himself to be entirely cranky, however, not even with Gwen. He knows she’s merely trying to keep them both safe until they’re ready to move on.

Merlin was never a…physical person. He never had to be. All his chores were always made easier with his magic, and he always had magic to defend himself. He’s useless with a sword and his aim with a crossbow is only so-so. But he knows, in his mind, that he has to prepare himself, should he be put in a situation where he can’t use his powers again. He knows that Gwen knows her way around a blade, and though he knows he shouldn’t be, he finds himself timid as he asks her if she can teach him what she knows.

She doesn’t laugh at him, like he almost expected her to, or ask him why he needs to, what with his magic and all, and he’s grateful that she understands. They set to work that very day, and though he wants to find it funny that they’re using sticks like a pair of children, he knows better than that. She works him harder than he thought she would, and he has his fair share of bruises (she didn’t have to poke _ that _ hard with the stick!) he’s sure, but that doesn’t matter. He settles into his bedroll that night satisfied, and can’t find it within himself to be annoyed when he wakes up achy in the morning.

Pain means progress, or something like that.

Oftentimes, he feels rather silly. Climbing trees isn’t even something he did as a _ child_, but here he is. Practicing footwork often feels like dancing, which he was never great at to begin with. Running, at least, he’s used to, but he doesn’t often do it for the hell of it. And running for the hell of it in the forest isn’t a very graceful endeavour. Swinging a stick as if it’s a sword is interestingly fun, though, but who the hell ever clung to a tree branch and tried to pull themselves up as many times in a row as they can? That’s just torture.

Regardless of whether he feels silly or not, he does it because he knows he has to. He does it because, if his magic is bound again, he’s screwed. At least, with this, he’ll be able to defend himself should he need to. Not to mention, it certainly beats sitting around and doing nothing. If he’s not mistaken, he even feels as if the exercise is helping ease the remainders his injuries. The broken bones have long healed, but the muscles surrounding them need to be stretched and put to work. Gaius used to say something about that, now that he thinks about it. 

The only thing he could do without, is Gwen’s watchful eye. He gets it, really! He’d do the same if the situation were reversed. Only he’s not a baby bird, as she’d surely tell him. He’s not delicate, and he won’t break if she turns her eyes away for a moment. Still, as previously stated, he _ gets _ that. So while he’s not too terribly annoyed about that, it’s, well…

He’s damaged. His body isn’t something he’s proud of. His back is littered in angry scars from Morgana’s cruel whip, his chest branded as a permanent reminder, even his thighs (though hidden from view) and his stomach bear the marks of slavery, and until recently, his ribs jutted out of his skin like they were trying to break free. He tried to keep his tunic on and dearly regretted it. Baggy clothes and training usually meant for knights don’t exactly mix well, as he’s found.

He doesn’t know, precisely, why he’s so bothered. It’s _ Gwen, _so it’s not as if he’s being judged. He’s not even being pitied, which he appreciates. He supposes…she’s the last person he wanted to see him like this, gods only know why. He tells himself it’s not because he thinks she’ll find him unattractive, but who is he kidding, anyway? She’s…stunning, in every single way. Her eyes mesmerise him, her warm complexion reminds him of days spent in the sunshine, her hair frames her delicate features in an almost angelic way, and oftentimes in recent days, he can’t help but think about how her body slotted perfectly against his when they huddled together for warmth, her soft curves pressing against him.

He pales in comparison. With ears that stick out and a long face that belongs on a horse, how could she ever see him the way that he sees her?

It’s…more than that, though.

Gwen is…sweet, and kind, and wonderful. She’s beautiful inside and out. Her soul and her spirit draw him in and enrapture him. And Merlin…well, again, he’s damaged. His heart is dark, and his soul is just as mangled as the rest of him. How could he ever allow himself to diminish her light, in any single way? His feelings for her become clearer by the day, but why would she want him? She’s everything he’s not. She’s bright where he’s melancholy. She’s optimistic where he’s pessimistic. She’s…

Too good for him, that’s what she is.

So he may as well tamp these blossoming feelings down as much as he can. Besides, they have other things to focus on.

If he can’t have her, love her, then he can put all his energy into defeating their tyrants. It’s best that he remembers that.

* * *

Merlin is…intense, Gwen decides. Yeah…intense seems a good word for it. All his secrets are out in the open, his entire self is laid bare, and as a result, gone is the boy she once knew. The clumsy servant is gone, and in his place, this…ridiculously powerful warlock. In all her time having known him, she never would’ve guessed he could be so serious.

That’s not to say, however, that he’s completely different, to the point where she feels like she doesn’t know him. He’s still…goofy, and sweet, and incredibly kind, and humble to the point where it’s almost irritating. He’s not as cheerful as he used to be, no, and she doesn’t blame him for that. But this boy…rather, this man, that she’s blessed enough to be allowed to share company with, is…there’s no word strong enough to describe him, she thinks.

His intensity stretches far past his personality, however. Everything about him is, in a word, extraordinary. Eyes of sapphire that seem to bore into her soul, and take her apart in all the best ways. Pale skin that seems like it glows in the moonlight, and dark hair that contrasts it beautifully. His cheekbones seem sharp enough to cut someone, and his jawline, and his lips? Those are just _ unfair_. He towers above her, and yet…she’s never felt safer with someone. The scars that litter his body do nothing to distract from his ethereal beauty, in fact, if anything they make him even more ruggedly handsome. He’s grumbled about not being able to shave before, but to be perfectly frank, she thinks the stubble suits him. It may have something to do with the aforementioned rugged handsomeness.

He doesn’t see himself the way she sees him, she knows. It’s clear in the way he casts his eyes downward any time his chest is exposed, in the way he becomes suddenly bashful when his tunic comes off. She understands why he thinks so lowly of his physical appearance, and she can sympathise. He certainly has less of a reason to think that his aging injuries don’t make him ugly, even if Gwen is convinced of the opposite.

Still…she has a hard time not…staring at him, oftentimes. It’s only been a week or two, but Gwen can _ swear _ she’s seen the physical effects of his regimen already. If anything, the muscles in his arms, and in his back are becoming more defined. She knows she shouldn’t ogle, but, well, she is a human. A human woman with an eye for nice things.

She watches him now, as pulls himself up with his tree branch, and she can’t take her eyes off of him. His skin glistens with sweat, and the muscles she’d mentioned earlier are popping out. She knows, gods does she know, that she needs to stop staring, that it’s quite obvious that she’s gawking at him. It doesn’t matter that he’s not paying attention to her. It’s the bloody principle of the matter.

Because she…should not be thinking about her friend like this. She absolutely should not be thinking about how his calloused hands would feel against her skin, or how soft his lips would be. She should not be thinking about how his body would move on top of hers, or how his voice would sound in her ear. She should _ not _ be thinking about a lazy morning spent in his arms, about soft kisses, about sharing a home, sharing a bed. She should not be lusting after him, and she should certainly not be pining after him, either.

She always feels guilty, too. Not only did they _ just _ lose Leon, and not only do they still feel just how empty it is without his presence, but who is Gwen to even think about pursuing Merlin, after all he’s been through? He needs time to himself, and although he’s physically healed, his mind needs a rest, as well.

“Merlin?” she calls, shaking herself out of her thoughts. “How about you stop for today? Come, sit down and rest with me.”

“Yeah, alright!” he drops down to the ground, and makes his way back over to her. The day is warm, though not excessively hot, but even so, his face is red with exertion, and his sweat damp hair clings to his forehead. He stoops down to pick up his waterskin, but instead of drinking it, he tips the bloody thing over his head, and water cascades down his hair, down his back, and oh, that is just _ not fair! _

She’s eternally grateful when he puts his tunic back on. Sitting next to her, he takes his dagger out and whittles away at a stick, seemingly just for something to do. Instead of focusing on that, Gwen turns to their campfire instead, where she’s…attempting a meal for them. Ingredients are limited, but she hopes that it’s edible, at least.

“So…I was thinking.” Merlin starts. “I’m feeling pretty good, and the danger must’ve passed by now, so…do you think we could continue on, soon?”

She knows he means _ go to Ealdor. _To be honest, she’s not entirely sure she wants to. She has no idea what might have happened while they’ve been hiding. For all they know, Ealdor could be flattened. But, it also could have remained untouched. Surely the Pendragons had enough common sense to know that Merlin wouldn’t return to the most obvious place there is, right?

“I think…that’s a perfectly wonderful idea. Besides, we’re running low on…everything, really.”

He absolutely _ beams _ at her.

(Good gods, but is she screwed.)

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, dear Leon. you will be avenged TT_TT
> 
> see y'all next week! hopefully...I'm a bit behind on chapter six but I plan to hit it and get it so. pray for me.


	6. Hell Hath No Fury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When they hit Merlin where it hurts, they find that it doesn't break him. If anything, the Warlock grows stronger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I DID IT. I DID IT, I DID IT, I DID IT!!!!!!!
> 
> bet'ya didn't think I would :D but I finished it!!!! WOOT!!!!
> 
> right into it, lads. I'm sorry in advance u.u

Despite everything, Merlin finds his spirits lifted as they set off towards his home. Just so long as he ignores the rising panic within his chest, ignores the thought that there will be no home to return to, he walks with a spring in his step, happily chatting away as they travel. Gwen humors him, chatting back, and swinging their arms when he reaches for her hand to hold. It’s…nice, to see her smile, after their loss. If he’s honest, he finds it nice to smile himself. It definitely feels like they don’t have much to smile _ about_.

It goes a lot slower than it would if they had horses, but Merlin doesn’t mind. He’s going home. It strikes him out of nowhere that this is the second time he’s bringing Gwen to Ealdor. Of course, Morgana had been with them the first time, and Arthur had caught up eventually. But there’s no need to say that this is completely different, as that much is obvious. Even if they’re as cheerful as they’re able to be in the face of everything, they’re refugees, technically fugitives, and the world burns around them, the fragile peace of the past crumbling into dust, and blowing away in the wind.

Thing is, Merlin was so wrapped up in his chatter with Gwen, that he hadn’t even realised that something was off when he entered the village, just a week later. Mainly, because his worst fears included fire and brimstone, corpses littering the ground and bloodsoaked soil. They didn’t include dead silence, and they didn’t include the stillness that surrounds them. In fact, it’s Gwen that grabs his arm, that holds him back as her eyes dart suspiciously about the village.

It’s then that the quietness unsettles him, and for a moment, he doesn’t even want to move, for fear that something or someone might pop out at him and say,

_ ‘Surprise! Now off with your head!’ _

It’s not until he sees a flash of movement in his peripheral that he unfreezes. He’s not sure what it is, only that it was in the window of one of the huts. And all he knows is that something is seriously wrong. It’s a terrible idea to run, he’s aware of this, but the only thing on his mind is his mother, he has to get to his mother, and she has to be okay, he has to make sure she’s okay, he has to keep her _ safe— _

“Merlin, no!” at first he thinks it’s Gwen who shouts at him, but it can’t be— she’s right beside him, matching him stride for stride. But as he looks forward, and he sees her, her arms waving about, waving him off, as she runs toward him. He pushes her panic to the back of his mind, instead running faster to her, desperate to get to her.

“Mother!”

“Turn back, Merlin!” she’s saying. “Turn back! It’s not safe here—!”

What happens next, happens in slow motion. He can see a figure behind her, aiming a crossbow. He can see the bolt coming toward her, and he opens his mouth to warn her, yet only manages a garbled shout. Perhaps he shouldn’t have said anything. Perhaps she would’ve been better off with a bolt to the back. Perhaps she could’ve survived, then. But instead, _ instead_, his shout alerts her to the danger, and she turns around, and winds up with the bolt lodged firmly in her stomach.

“_No!” _he screams.

“Hunith!” Gwen gasps.

He barely makes it to her in time to catch her. To his horror, as he adjusts her in his arms as carefully as he can, he notes that the bruises on her face are both fresh and old. Briefly, he wonders how long this has been going on, if another man like Kanen had come round and overtook his home while he was locked away, or while he was hiding.

“Mother…” he whispers, trying to keep his voice from trembling. “Mother, you’re going to be fine. I— I know a bit of healing magic, yeah? I’ll get you fixed right up, I promise.”

“Merlin, you need to leave this place.” is Hunith’s response. “You and Gwen need to leave. It’s not safe, here.”

His first thought is, _ ‘Well, obviously. You’ve a bloody bolt in your stomach, Mother.’ _

“We can take care of it. Whatever it is, we can take care of it. Right, Gwen?”

“Exactly.” Gwen murmurs, dropping to kneel beside them. “But first, we need to get you somewhere safer.” 

(But she and Merlin both know that there is no use in trying to heal her wound.)

“No, Merlin, you don’t understand,” Hunith whimpers. “It—,”

“You should listen to your mother, you know.”

No.

Oh, gods, _ no. _

Arms tightening around his mother, Merlin lifts his head to glare at Arthur as he approaches. His crossbow is slung casually over his shoulder, hand on his hip as comes to a stop just before them. Unsurprisingly, Morgana and Morgause are not far behind, both of them wearing shiny new armour that glints in the sunlight.

Why wait, he wonders? Why wait until Merlin and Gwen showed up, when there was no telling when, or even _ if _ they would? His hands shake in anger, and his magic tingles beneath his skin, and if it wasn’t such a foolish idea to attempt it, he’d strike them down right here, right now, with no regrets.

“How did you know?” he demands, voice trembling not with fear, for the first time, but with uncontrolled _ hate_. “How did you know I’d come round?”

“Your false trail didn’t work.” Morgana sighs. “And even then, why wouldn’t you return to your childhood home? You’re too easy to read, Merlin. Any fool that knows you, knows that you’d protect your dear mother with your life. Shame you couldn’t, this time.”

“You don’t know me!” he spits. “You don’t know the first thing about me!”

“But we knew about this, didn’t we?” Morgause asks, and Merlin’s fists clench harder.

“You’re monsters.” he accuses. “All three of you! You’re not even _ human _ anymore!”

“Flatterer.” Morgana teases. “Now, stop this nonsense and come home, Merlin. We’re terribly bored without you, Pet.”

_ “Don’t call me that!” _

Arthur huffs, and rolls his eyes, reloading his crossbow with practised ease.

“Alright, let’s get this over with.” he sighs. Merlin expects the crossbow to be aimed at him, and he’s unafraid. But when Arthur aims for Gwen, Merlin’s heart freezes in his chest. “Come with us, or we’ll kill her. Simple.”

Gwen clutches at Merlin’s arm with both hands, and though her grip says that she’s afraid, the expression on her face is determined, as she lifts her chin as to dare Arthur to just try it.

“Hold on tight to me.” Merlin whispers. “And don’t let go for anything.” he turns his attention back to the trio in front of him, and the rage of them harming his mother, and threatening to harm Gwen, mixes and mingles with the rage he’s felt since Leon died. They get to have their group of three; three, being the most important number in magic that Merlin knows of. The third part of his and Gwen’s group, a part that could never be filled, is gone, and it’s all _ their _ fault. The witches and the king. The dreaded regents of Camelot.

“Like I said. You really don’t know me, at all. I still have a few tricks up my sleeve.”

It’s not until he’s shouting the incantation, that their eyes widen in realisation. Arthur hurriedly tries to take his shot, but it’s no use. With a gust of wind, Merlin and Gwen are gone, taking Hunith with them.

Merlin holds tight to his mother, and Gwen holds tight to him, as they travel through the air. He had no specific location in mind, and thus, when they find themselves placed gently back on the ground, he has no idea where they are. No matter, he’s sure they’re far away from the bastards that did this.

Only when he gets his bearings back does Merlin remember what’s happening. His eyes wide, he looks down at his mother, and gently lays her on the forest floor. Pushing back how awkward it feels to do so, he pulls out his dagger and cuts away the fabric of her dress around the crossbow bolt, as to see her wound better.

“Gwen, can you fetch me my waterskin?” he asks, gently. Gwen says nothing in response, grabbing his waterskin and tossing it over to him. “This is going to hurt, Mother, but I need to pull the bolt out, okay?”

“Merlin.”

“Just relax.”

“Merlin…”

“Ready?”

“Merlin!”

He stops, hand on the bolt, eyes wide and panicked as he looks at her.

“Have I hurt you?”

“No, Merlin.” Hunith murmurs. She places her hand upon his face, thumb gently stroking his cheek. “But there’s no point.”

“No…” he whispers, shaking his head. “No, you’re going to be fine!”

“Merlin, it’s alright.” she tells him. “You’ll have to continue your journey without me.”

“Mother, no! No, I…I can’t do this without you.”

“Sure you can.” she insists, smiling at him, weak and watery though it may be. “You’re a good boy, Merlin. A good, strong, _ kind _ boy. And I know you’ll be a great man.” Her thumb brushes away the tears that begin to fall from his eyes. “You’re the only one that can bring peace back to the Five Kingdoms, Merlin, and I know you’ll do it with all the honour and integrity that makes up your person.”

“Don’t go.” Merlin pleads.

“I’m sorry.” she whispers. “I love you, my sweet boy.” 

There’s nothing else he can do; even if he pulls the crossbow bolt out, she’s fading quickly, and by the time he finds the spell he needs…

He can feel it, the moment her heart stops beating. With a pain in his chest, throughout his entire sense of self, her death rips through him like a torrent, as her hand falls from his cheek.

With a mighty roar of grief, his magic explodes out of his body, shaking the ground beneath them.

* * *

She’s terrified for a moment. She felt only a burst of energy, before the earth began to quake beneath her feet. It’s only for a second, but it was enough to knock her to her knees. Her heart settles along with the ground, and she glances over at Merlin, hunched over his mother. Hunith lies still in his arms, and Gwen’s heart sinks to the pits of her stomach.

Slowly, ever so slowly, she makes her way over to him, kneeling next to him, and laying her head upon his shaking shoulder. She says nothing, as there’s nothing _ to _ say. She wraps an arm around him, as that’s all she can do, and mourns quietly with him. Out of everyone, Hunith deserved this the least. She was innocent, and the only thing she did wrong was be related to Merlin, and help a few refugees get back on their feet.

Gwen wishes, more than anything, that she could’ve gotten to know the woman a little better, outside of their letters. She must’ve been nothing short of remarkable, if she was Merlin’s mother.

She doesn’t know how long they sit there, Hunith’s still body growing colder by the second, but they remain, long after Merlin’s tears have dried and his shaking has stopped. The forest they found themselves in however many hours ago, is still, and quiet. Not even the birds sing, and even the foxes are quiet, and the deer don’t so much as stir. It feels as though even the trees and the brush are in mourning. It seems Hunith and Merlin both had the same effect on people and animals alike; easy to fall in love with, and impossible to get over. 

Merlin doesn’t say anything to her when he moves, doesn’t even look in her direction. He gets up, and walks away, holding his mother close to him. Not wanting to interrupt, but not wanting to leave him alone, Gwen grabs their packs as silently, and trails after him. She’s uncertain how long they walk for, and she can’t see Merlin’s expression, though she could hazard a guess to what it is. It doesn’t even seem like he knows where he’s going, like he’s just going to walk until he can’t anymore.

She understands the feeling.

Hours must pass. Gwen keeps her eyes trained on the ground, fiddling with the straps of her sack, so she doesn’t notice when Merlin’s stopped, at least, not until she walks right into his back.

“Sorry…”

It’s the first word either of them have spoken in hours.

Merlin doesn’t respond, and when she looks up she notices, with no small amount of surprise, that they’ve found themselves by a lake. It’s a beautiful spot, really. It’s…quiet, but not oppressively so, and wildflowers bloom as far as the eye can see. The water is clear and crisp, and reflects the sky, pink and gold with the sunset. On the shore, a boat. It’s old, and looks like it hasn’t been used in ages upon ages, but it seems like it’ll float just fine. Merlin seems to think the same, as he walks over to it, and gently lays Hunith inside.

Ah, now Gwen understands. Instead of saying anything, she sets their packs down, and walks about the clearing, picking out all the prettiest wildflowers she can find, as Merlin does the same. They don’t stop until they have heaping armfulls of them, and even then, they go back for more. The sun is nearly set by the time they begin to arrange the flowers around her. Were it not for the blood staining Hunith’s dress, and the crossbow bolt pulled out and tossed to the side, she’d almost look as if she were in a deep, peaceful sleep. Gwen hadn’t noticed it before, but Hunith almost looks…content. She hopes that Merlin can find a bit of solace, in that. She hopes so, but she knows he doesn’t.

She understands what it’s like to lose a parent, suddenly and violently. 

With their arms empty of flowers, and an entire garden surrounding dear Hunith, Merlin stops, leans down, and presses a gentle kiss to his mother’s forehead, whispering,

“May we meet again in Avalon, Mother.”

Ignoring the nauseas ache in the pit of her stomach, and the lurch of her heart in her chest, Gwen moves to the back of the boat, ready to push it into the water whenever Merlin is. He joins her after a few more moments, and together, they push her out to the middle of the lake. There, standing on the shore, Gwen reaches down to grasp Merlin’s hand, and he grips it back, to the point where it’s almost painful. She finds she doesn’t mind, so much.

Carefully, Merlin raises his free hand, and whispers,

_ “Forbærnen.” _

It’s not a sudden flame, but one that slowly envelops the woman in the boat. They watch it, for a long time, Merlin’s hand trembling in Gwen’s. Still, she says nothing. Still, all she does is offer silent comfort, arm wrapping around his, head resting on his shoulder. Though both of them are exhausted, they don’t move, and the sun has long since set into the horizon.

“I’m so sorry, Merlin…” she whispers, eventually. He says nothing. She doesn’t blame him.

They remain until the flames die out, and, too exhausted to find shelter fot the night, they lay their bedrolls out in the clearing. A horribly dangerous thing to do, they realise, but they don’t seem to care. Neither of them seem to be able to sleep, anyway, staring up at the stars in the sky, their campfire crackling into the silence.

“How did you know there was a lake…?” Gwen asks, eventually.

“I didn’t.” Merlin answers, his voice hoarse, and gravelly. “I just walked until I found it.”

“I see…”

And that’s it. They fall back into silence. Gwen wants to encourage him, to tell him it’ll be alright in the end, but this isn’t like Leon or even Amis. This is his mother. Years have passed since Gwen’s father died, and she still grieves him, every day, and it sometimes it feels like she’ll never be rid of it. Is it different, she wonders, for other people, whose parents died of old age? If they lived long full lives and their bodies merely stopped working, one day? She supposes it must be, but she has no reference point.

Desperately, she wants him to know that he’s not alone. He lost Gaius, and he lost his mother, but he still has…well, he has Gwen. Silently, in this moment, she gives herself over, completely, and vows that everything she does, and everything she is, is for Merlin, and will always be for him.

She doesn’t tell him this. But she hopes that he hears her anyway, through her actions. She hopes that it’s clear in the way she moves her bedroll closer to his, in the way she presses herself to his back and wraps her arms around him, in the way she holds him and refuses to let go as he silently cries himself to sleep.

She hopes so, but she isn’t sure.

* * *

Merlin has nothing to say. Not to Gwen, or anyone.

Of course, he appreciates her being there, he truly does. But deep in his heart, the rage _ burns_. How much more will they take from him before they’re finished? Or will they ever be? Perhaps it won’t end until corpses litter the ground between them, until the three of them lie dead at his feet.

With startling clarity, he finds he’s not bothered by that. He doesn’t mind the thought of Arthur or Morgana dying by his hand, and has never cared enough about Morgause to think about it. He thinks maybe it _ should _ bother him, that a part of him, however small it may be, even goes so far as to _ delight _ in the thought. They used to be his friends. They used to be as close as can be. 

Not anymore, however. They’d smashed his love when they killed Gaius, they’d broken his spirit when they killed Amis, they’d stolen his barely restored happiness when they killed Leon, and they signed their own death warrants, when they killed his mother.

He trains harder than he’s ever trained before, pushing himself harder and harder, every day. Every target he throws his dagger at is one of their black, inhuman hearts, every ghost partner he spars with is one of them, and he channels everything into it, his rage and his passion, and doesn’t stop until he nearly collapses in exhaustion.

He and Gwen travel the land, searching for…something. Neither of them are entirely certain what they’re looking for. Perhaps people to join them. They’d left without a word to their rebels, but if they were smart, they would’ve left the moment they got the chance. Merlin only hopes they can reunite soon. The more support they have, the more people they have backing the cause, the sooner this can be over with, the sooner Amis and Leon and Mother can be avenged.

Some two or three weeks after that fateful day, the pair runs into a woman that’s unfamiliar to Merlin. However, Gwen greets her with surprise and warmth, hugging her close and ruffling her ginger curls affectionately. She introduces her to Merlin as Maria, and the woman’s eyes widen in surprise upon hearing his name.

“So you’re the famous Merlin.” she says, quietly. “It’s…good to finally meet you in person.”

Merlin acknowledges her with a head nod, and a terse murmur of,

“Pleasure to meet you.”

She seems taken aback for a moment, but to his quiet relief, makes no comment, and seems to understand. He knows that just about everyone was aware of what happened in his tower, and he’s glad that Maria avoids asking about it. Merlin wonders, briefly, if Gwen had told the rebels what he used to be like, how he used to be full of love and light and joy. He wonders, briefly, if the rebels he came to know back in Camelot would be disappointed in his change. And then, he finds, he doesn’t exactly care. Let them think what they think. If they’re not willing to follow Merlin into battle, do they really want their freedom?

Quietly, two becomes three, once again. It should be four, and all of them know this. Gwen had told Maria about Leon’s execution, but, to her credit, Maria had only sighed in defeat. She knows this won’t be easy, which is good. Blind optimism in the face of what they’re trying to do is a foolish and dangerous mindset.

Essitir falls to the armies of Camelot soon thereafter. Cenred, who was once an ally of Morgana and Morgause, is publicly executed, his head impaled on a pike as a warning. A warning which the subjects do not heed. Silently, their numbers grow. Silently, while soldiers in Pendragon Red roam the streets and towns, meetings are held in the dead of night again, in the darkness of homes, in secret rooms in taverns.

The people are miserable. Taxes are increased, strict curfews are put into place, and the regency strikes fear into everyone’s hearts. Everybody except for the rebels. While the citizens don’t know what's going to happen next, what’s to happen to their homes and livelihoods and families while the threat of a continuing war looms over their head, promises of a better future, promises of bringing down the Pendragon Dynasty and replacing it with something new, promises of safety, mitigate their fears if only for a little while, and plant seeds of hope. Gwen’s way with words garners support, and Merlin’s refusal to bow down and let his life be ruled by what happened to him inspires many.

Faber finds them late into the spring. He reports that some have stayed behind in Camelot, to take care of their fellow citizens, but several refugees are to follow him. He doesn’t say much about the sudden and dramatic change within his leaders, much like Maria. But he’s one of the rare ones that doesn’t have much to say. There are some— new members that don’t know as much— that question Merlin and Gwen’s leadership.

Because Merlin had been an unassuming servant, and Gwen was a _ girl_. Usually, those who question them, are educated within a week or two. It takes a lot for Gwen and Merlin to lose their tempers on someone, or for their patience to wear thin, but after growing tired of consistent passive aggression, and nonstop questions of the arguably rude nature, Gwen had finally snapped, and said,

“Aren’t we all in this together? Infighting is useless, when we have a war coming.”

And Merlin had been more than happy to demonstrate his strength and prowess.

Nobody questioned them after that.

As their numbers grow, they travel. Their camp increases in size, and part of Merlin wants to be irritated at the fact that they’ve more mouths to feed, but he can’t bring himself to be truly annoyed. In fact, he’s delighted. The more they have, the easier it will be to defeat armies, to liberate their fellow man.

It almost feels…strange, to be giving orders and assignments, and he can see in Gwen’s eye that it’s strange for her, too. However, it’s what they need to do, and they know this. So they push back their discomfort, and they oversee their camp, their rebels.

But all the while, Merlin grieves his dead mother. When he retires to his tent, when the day is done and he lies, sleepless, upon his bedroll, all he can think of is her face in her final moments, the panic in her eyes as she tried to warn him of the danger. It makes him sad, it makes him angry, it _ frightens _ him. His mother’s face changes to Leon’s, whose face changes into Amis, and back again, over and over and over until Merlin can’t see the difference. So there he lay, stewing in his thoughts, as he waits for either sleep to take him, or for dawn to break.

It’s usually the former.

* * *

The village isn’t small, but it isn’t vast, either. But it’s big enough that they can gather the supplies they need for a while. It’s getting harder and harder to get enough, and it has not escaped Gwen’s notice. However, that’s not on her mind at the moment. The only thing she’s worried about is Merlin. She can tell he hasn’t slept, at least not well, and she can tell that he’s on the verge of…something. A breakdown, passing out, or both, she’s not entirely certain.

She wonders briefly what would happen with his magic if he’s too tired to control it, and immediately puts that thought out of her mind. He’d never hurt them, not willingly, and he’d do his best to keep them safe. Even from himself. 

She keeps her hand laced in his as they walk about the town, whether to keep him upright or Just Because, she’s not sure. Perhaps it’s both. 

He hardly speaks, to her or anyone. She doesn’t quite know what to say to him, anyhow. At night, he’s the last one to retire, and the first one up in the morning. Gwen wants, desperately, to help her dear friend, but how? She understands where his mind is, certainly. She understands that the grief is overpowering, and threatens to overtake one’s entire sense of self.

But people grieve differently. He throws himself into his training, and she can see the determination in every bead of sweat, and she can hear it in every grunted exhale. The Pendragons have gone far past the point of no return, now, she knows. At first, Merlin was sad. And then he was as discouraged as she, but now? Now she can see the rage behind those pale blue irises. It’s an ever-present undertone to his voice, it’s the shadow upon his back, it’s the bags under his eyes.

Gwen can’t say that she was truly angry with Uther, or that she wanted him dead, after her father was killed. She’d hated him, yes, for weeks or days or hours or even minutes at a time, and she hated him after her father died. But this…this is completely different. Uther may have had Gwen’s father killed, but Arthur and Morgana took everything from Merlin, stripped him down and laid him bare, pushed him to attempt suicide. And then they killed his friend, and after that, his mother. Leon’s death had meant something, yes. He’d been executed for treason, he’d died for their cause.

Hunith’s death had no rhyme or reason to it. It was meant to hurt. 

And hurt it did. 

But not in the way they were expecting. Gwen wonders what their goal was. To break Merlin? To have him crawling back to them, devoid of hope? Whatever the case, they made a grand error.

And Gwen hates them. She hates them from taking her Merlin away from her, for stealing his light, for moulding him into the man he has become. She loves him, she really does. She loves him _ intensely_, and as the days pass, she’s not entirely certain it’s merely platonic, anymore. She loves the new man as much as she loved the old boy. But she misses him, more than anything. She misses the awkward smiles and nervous chuckles, she misses his (admittedly tasteless) jokes and endless chatter.

It’s equal parts amazing to witness and heartbreaking to watch as he grows. Not just in maturity, but physically. It was something else, back when she began to tutor him and train him. She loved to watch him transform, day by day, the caterpillar to the butterfly. But she’s not so sure, as someone more martially experienced than she takes over and she attends to other matters, that his slow metamorphosis could be described as such, anymore. She’s not sure what she’d call it, really.

She never was one for the rough-tough-save-the-world kind of guy, as she’d said before. But maybe…that’s not entirely true. It’s a strange feeling, this love for him she has. Any time he encourages the rebels, any time he swears, with that determined look in his eye, that they will have the victory, that he will see to it that their bonds are broken, she listens reverently. Every time those intense and focused blue eyes are trained on her, she feels a pit in her stomach that that isn't...entirely bad. She'd even go as far to say that it's a pleasant feeling.

And, of course, he’s incredibly attractive, but that’s neither here nor there.

Still…it’s entirely too bad that _ this _ is how he came about finding the strength of a mundane knight. That his fear and his anger and his hatred are what pushed him into learning to defend himself without his abilities. There’s a part of Gwen that almost wishes he was still thin, gawky, that his hair remained cut above his sticky-outy ears and his jaw clean shaven. Because then, he had no insecurities. Then, he was unassuming, nonthreatening, because he could afford to be. He was still as handsome as could be, sure, and both looks suit him beyond a shadow of a doubt, but…

It’s just...strange. Gwen supposes she can’t have her cake and eat it, too.

The familiar and comforting sound of a mallet on an anvil, coming from the forge just ahead, shakes her out of her reverie. She almost wants to drop in, and watch the smith do his work. No, actually, she really wants to. When she was little, she used to watch her father beat those lumps of heated metal into submission, and the effect was absolutely _ breathtaking _ to the child; magical in a way. It’s a silly whim, and a silly thought, to think that watching the blacksmith work would comfort her, but she finds herself pulling Merlin along, regardless.

Something about this place draws her in, anyway. And Merlin has no complaints as he follows her, offering nothing more than a questioning quirk of his brow.

The smith’s back is turned to them, as they enter, diligently at work.

“Just a moment!” He calls. “I’ll be right with you!”

That voice…

It’s not until after he’s quenched the blade that he turns around, and she sees his face. Her breath stops short, and for a moment, she’s not entirely sure she’s seeing correctly. She _ must _ be imagining things. She’s not seen him in years, and to run into him by chance seems impossible.

“Elyan?” she breathes.

To his credit, he looks just as shocked as she feels. It’s almost a silly look on him; his mouth hanging open, his eyes wide as saucers, and Gwen can almost hear their father saying, ‘Close your mouth, son, you’ll catch flies!’

“Gwen!”

It’s a blur, for a moment. One minute he’s at his forge, and the next minute his arms are around her. It’s safety, and it’s comfort, and she’s missed him so. She could just about _ cry_. 

“Oh, gods, it’s so good to see you.” she tells him, and finds herself not caring a single bit that her voice trembles as she does. “I’ve missed you.”

“It’s good to see you too, Gwen.” he whispers.

His embrace is as close to home as she’s going to get, at least for a while. So she holds on as long as she can, holding onto that feeling, breathing in the scent long forgotten. She only lets go when she realises she’s being completely rude, and her eyes flick apologetically to Merlin’s confused expression.

“Right, sorry. Elyan, this is Merlin, he’s a close friend of mine. Merlin, this is my brother, Elyan.”

For the first time in a while, Merlin’s stony exterior melts away, and Gwen is positively _ overjoyed _ that he’s offering a pleasantly surprised smile, small though it may be.

“It’s nice to meet you.” he says, offering his arm, which Elyan gladly claps his own with.

“Yeah, you too, mate.” he answers, grinning. “So, when you say close friend…”

Oh gods. Already.

“Elyan.” Gwen warns.

“What? I’m just asking.”

Gwen startles at the rumble that comes from within Merlin’s chest, and only after it’s passed, does she realise that it was a chuckle.

Today is a good day, she decides. Today is a very, very good day.

“We sort of…travel together, I guess you could say.” Merlin offers, and Elyan’s eyebrows shoot upwards towards his hairline. He glances between the two, and Gwen has to say, he looks almost impressed. “Listen, I’m gonna go and gather the rest of the supplies.” Merlin continues, attention on Gwen. “I’ll meet up with you. Give you two a chance to catch up.”

“Oh, okay. See you in a little bit?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Hey, listen, come back round here when you’re finished, yeah? You two could stay for dinner.” Elyan offers.

“Oh, Elyan, we couldn’t.” as much as Gwen would love to stay, they have their camp to oversee, anyhow.

“We’d hate to impose.” Merlin agrees.

“Nonsense!” Elyan huffs. “My sister could never impose, and any friend of hers is a friend of mine. Stay, please. Just for dinner, I swear.”

It’s a tempting offer, it really is.

Although…if they discuss their plans with him, he could always…join?

Merlin seems to be thinking the same thing when she meets his eye.

“I— suppose we could stay for a while.” he says.

And despite everything, Gwen finds herself positively _ delighted_.

* * *

“Gwen, this is crazy.”

Merlin freezes just outside the door of Elyan’s house at the sound of his voice.

“Leading a revolution? You could get yourself killed!”

Ah.

“I _ have _ to.” Gwen is saying, in that confident but severe tone of hers that, admittedly, sends shivers down Merlin’s spine. In the good way this time, and everything! “Elyan, if you’ve seen what we’ve seen…”

“I just don’t think this is a good idea. I mean, what business is it of yours, anyway? Nothing terrible has happened, save for a slight increase on taxes, and a curfew. It’s easier to just…keep your head down, in times like this.”

It’s dreadfully silent for several moments.

“Merlin is my business.” Gwen says, quietly. And my, does Merlin’s face feel rather hot, at that. “And if you could see what they’ve done to him, you’d agree with me. And, I refuse to bury my head in the sand, and pretend like this isn’t happening, because it is, Elyan! People are _ dying_, the Pendragons are tyrants, and they’re not going to _ stop _ until they’ve built their empire! Don’t you know what that means? Don’t you have the foresight to see that this is going to end badly? No matter what, there’s going to be bloodshed, surely you understand that!”

Silence, again. Merlin exhales slowly, knocks on the door with purpose, and acts as if he hadn’t been eavesdropping when Elyan beckons him in. They seem tense, and Merlin can understand why. Far be it from him to try and relieve it, however. He wants to, but he’s not entirely sure _ how _ to. His mind is usually on other things, regardless.

“Hope I’m not interrupting anything.” he murmurs as he steps inside.

“Hardly.” Gwen’s voice is soft, but the look she’s giving her brother is hard. “Did you find everything okay, love?”

“Yeah, of course. It’s not too much, but I think it should be enough to last us all a while.”

“Good.”

The tension leaks away, as they sit down for their meal, slowly but surely. Merlin finds he rather likes Elyan, actually. Much like his sister, he’s…gentle, and kind, but has a fierceness about him that Merlin can both appreciate, and use to understand that it’d be better to stay on the man’s good side. It’s unfortunate, that he doesn’t seem to approve of their ideas and their efforts. He’d be a valuable asset. Though Merlin can understand. He’d built a life here, why throw it all away? Gwen and Merlin left their home in Camelot out of necessity. So long as he keeps his head down and does his work, Elyan can remain comfortably where he is, with little to no issue.

Merlin doesn’t say this out loud to Gwen, of course.

It’s when he’s helping Elyan with the clearing up, and Gwen is busy gathering their things, that Elyan finally says to him,

“So this revolution…was it your idea?”

“Hardly.” Is the immediate answer. “I was…indisposed, when it surfaced. It was all your sister, really. She’s…unapologetic, and she can hold her own better than most men that I know. But you knew that.”

“Yeah…” Elyan sighs. “I did. How…if you don’t mind my asking, what do you mean, ‘indisposed’? Where were you?”

Merlin presses his lips together.

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Alright…”

Silence falls on them, for a while.

“How is she, really?” Elyan asks, softly. “In…the face of everything?”

Merlin considers his answer, for a long time.

“She’s angry.” he answers, finally. “We all are. But she’s an incredible leader. Either in spite of, or because of her anger, I don’t know. Maybe a little bit of both. The people listen to her, and she’s got this way with words…this passion that I’ve never seen before. She stands up for what’s right, and that’s what…”

_ That’s what I love about her. _

“That’s what captures everyone’s attention,” he finishes.

“Yeah…” Elyan murmurs. “She’s always been like that…” there’s a soft, sad smile. “I just worry about her.”

“You’re her brother, of course you do.” Merlin chuckles. “But for what it’s worth…I think she worries about you, too.”

Elyan says nothing in response. The silence that follows, however, is a comfortable one. It’s a nice change from the tenseness that Merlin admittedly exudes.

They don’t stay for too terribly long, afterwards. They need to get back, and break camp in the morning, and move on. So goes their life. Elyan bids them goodbye at the door, and Gwen turns around to hug him one more time.

“If you change your mind,” she urges. “You know where to find us.”

“Yeah, I do. See you later, Gwen.”

“See you.”

Though there was no tearful ‘I love you’ exchanged between the siblings, and though their embrace hadn’t lasted long, Merlin can see that it’s hard for them to part. He almost feels bad, and he almost wants to go back and convince Elyan to come with them. But it’s his choice, just as it’s Gwen’s choice to go back to their camp.

A deep sigh escapes his companion as they journey back. She seems distracted, her thumb rubbing circles on the back of Merlin’s hand where it’s joined with hers.

“Alright, love?” he presses, carefully.

“I…yeah? Only I haven’t seen him in years, and…to be honest it kinda hurts that he doesn’t want to come with.”

Merlin understands. Elyan is the only family she’s got left.

“Yeah…” he murmurs. “I don’t doubt as much.”

“But it was nice to see him!” she continues. “And it was nice to catch up.”

“He seems to be doing well for himself.”

“He is! He really, really is. He’s always had…well, he’s always had this habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, so…he finds himself in trouble, oftentimes. Not through any fault of his own. Well…sometimes. So I guess…I guess this is just him, doing what Father asked. Keeping his head down, doing his work, and staying out of trouble.”

Makes perfect sense, really.

“Wish we could do that…” it’s more of a joke, really, and Merlin lets out a playfully wistful sigh. However, when Gwen stares at him in disbelief, he thinks she might’ve taken it literally. “Not really! I mean, I’m happy to— well, not happy to…you know what I mean.”

“Merlin…” she says, and her grin…he almost forgot what it looked like. “I think that’s the first joke I’ve heard you tell in a really long time.”

Most likely.

“I’m just…you seem to be doing really well today. How are you feeling, truly? You’d better not be faking it, sir.”

Faking it? Hardly. Merlin remains pensive for a moment, thinking about the day he’s had.

“To be honest, Gwen, I’m just…I was glad to see that you were happy.” he answers.

And that’s the gods’ honest truth.

Has he mentioned before, just how beautiful her smile is?

* * *

Merlin sleeps that night, for which Gwen is eternally grateful. In fact, he sleeps longer than her. She doesn’t know where to find him, that morning. Usually he’s up and already packing their camp. But she seems to be alone, this time. Nobody stirs, and only the sounds of gentle breathing and snoring fill the air. Curiously, she makes her way to Merlin’s tent, and peeks inside, expecting him to be getting ready for the day, or something.

No. In fact, he remains still in his bedroll, the only movement being the gentle rise and fall of his chest. She smiles gently, and part of her wants to let him sleep, but logically she knows that they need to move on.

Carefully, she glides over to him, gently shaking his shoulder.

“Merlin?” she calls, softly. “It’s time to wake up.”

“Hmmm…?”

He rolls over, but other than that, doesn’t stir. Gwen suppresses a giggle. She’s never seen him sleep so soundly, not since he stayed with her in her home. She cards a hand through his hair, hoping it’ll rouse him.

“Come on, sleepyhead. We’ve got to pack up.”

The hum that escapes him comes from deep in his chest, and finally, be begins to wake. He blinks his bleary eyes open, and she can see the moment that his sleep addled brain finally catches up with the rest of him. He offers a lazy smile.

“G’Morning.” he slurs.

“Morning.” Gwen greets back, and, realising that she’s still petting his hair, pulls her hand away. “What say we get some breakfast going and head out, hm?”

“Yeah.” Merlin grunts, as he sits up. “Yeah, that’d be a good idea.”

She waits patiently as he stands and gets dressed, and briefly marvels at how neither of them seem to be bothered by this. It’s nothing she hasn’t seen before, she supposes, having played nurse for him for weeks on end, and having shared close quarters with him.

Still, the implications…

Not that she minds.

If Merlin notices the looks they get, the poorly hidden smiles and whispers that sound suspiciously like ‘I knew it’ and ‘it’s about time’, he doesn’t say anything. So Gwen doesn’t say anything, either, and chats away with Merlin as they prepare the, admittedly meagre, morning meal. She’s pleasantly surprised to find that, unlike most mornings, he’s chatting back. It’s quiet, and more indulgent than anything, but he’s chatting all the same.

They eat last, as usual, always making sure that there’s enough food for everyone else before tucking in themselves. Gwen oversees her camp, Merlin at her side, and finds it to be another one of those odd things. Because, well, in the face of everything, one would expect them to be somber, and downtrodden.

But it’s the opposite. The rebels are cheerful, and they joke around and muck about like children when they have the time. From where she sits, Gwen can see Maria huddled up with Faber, each of them whispering quietly to each other and sharing secret smiles. Jonathan, a boy no older than seventeen, and fond of practical jokes, can be seen getting up to his usual antics. The chatter is lively, the smiles are genuine.

Gwen is…so incredibly proud of them all.

Only when everyone is fed do they begin to clear up. Some have already started; dousing the campfire, rolling up their bedrolls, and, when they’re finished, helping the others.

There’s not enough tents to go around, and Gwen and Merlin both had been loathe to each take one, but their friends, their brothers and sisters in arms rather, had heard nothing of it. They _ still _ hear nothing of it, when they demand to help take them and the few others down. Gwen watches as Merlin and a few other men pack up the heavier items, and she can’t help the smile that graces her features. As strange as it is, as strange as it has been, Merlin is in his element here, with other people. Helping, and receiving help, fighting alongside this motley crew of rebels when the need arises.

She supposes, despite his change, she’s proud of him, the most.

It doesn’t take long to pack everything up, gather everyone, and move to set out. They don’t have an entire army, no, but it’s not exactly a small group, either. Gwen and Merlin remain at the back of their convoy, to ensure their safety. Faber, easily one of their most trusted individuals, and keen with a map, takes up the front. They remain merry as they travel.

But they don’t get very far, before a shout commands their attention. Merlin visibly tenses as he turns to see who it is, and Gwen reaches for the sword on her belt.

However, it’s Merlin that relaxes first, and stays her arm.

“Wait. It’s fine, Gwen. Just a straggler.”

What? No, she’d taken the headcount herself. Surely nobody got left behind.

“Wait up!”

Oh.

_ Oh! _

“So you decided to join us after all, eh?” Merlin chuckles, and Elyan lets out a breathless laugh as he stops before them to catch his breath.

“Well someone has to look after my sister, eh? No offense mate, but…”

“Oh, no, I completely understand.”

“I can take care of _ myself_.” Gwen insists, sternly. But one look at her brother’s face, and she can’t remain angry for long. “But thank you. This…this means the world to me, Elyan.”

So, her brother joins their party. 

And Gwen can’t wipe the grin from her face for the rest of the day.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOOT, HI ELYAN!!!!! y'all don't even know how excited I was to bring him him, oof. dear beans. Merlin and his future bro in law, hitting it off, I'm so proud of them.
> 
> anywhooooo, stay tuned next week for everyone's favorite silky-haired drunk :D


	7. Strength, Courage, and Magic.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's only one man insane enough to accompany Gwen and Merlin to the Perilous Lands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GWAAAAIIIIIIINNNNNEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> I love him :3
> 
> another filler chapter today, lads.

Elyan fits right in, immediately. He’s a skilled fighter, and a wonderful person. No, seriously, Merlin genuinely enjoys his company. Not that he’s surprised. Gwen couldn’t be happier with the presence of her brother, and her cheer brightens Merlin’s mood considerably.

The elder sibling is strange, though, Merlin decides. He often sneaks glances as Merlin interacts with Gwen; which is often given that they make the decisions for everyone. But what Merlin thought to be a protective older brother making sure that Merlin wasn’t taking advantage of his sister, seems to be proven as something else entirely. Every time Gwen touches Merlin’s arm to grab his attention, or places a kiss to his brow, Elyan can be seen hiding a smile behind his hand, or giving them a knowing glance.

He is…entirely wrong, Merlin thinks, if he’s correct in assuming what Elyan’s suspicions are. As often as Merlin finds himself thinking about it, he knows that he and Gwen will never be anything more than close friends, co-leaders. Which is alright, he supposes, because at least they’ll be that.

“So…” Elyan starts, sitting next to the warlock.

Merlin pauses whetting his blade, and glances over when Elyan doesn’t continue.

“Yes?”

“You and Gwen are rather close, aren’t you?”

Oh boy.

“Well…yes. She’s my best friend.”

Elyan gives him a look like he just unloaded a bunch of crap.

“Yeah, well, I got that much.” He laughs. “Only I mean you guys are _ close _ close.” 

“Elyan, you sound like a child.”

“Stop deflecting!” my, he’s rather jovial today, isn’t he? “You like her, don’t you?”

Merlin has to think about that. He obviously likes Gwen. Everyone likes Gwen. And if they don’t, they’re an idiot. However, Elyan means it differently. He’s hinting at an infatuation, childlishy asking if Merlin _ Like _ Likes the girl in question. The answer to that?

A big, fat, resounding No.

It’s gone far past infatuation. Merlin has passed the point of no return. He’s besotted. Head over heels in love with his companion. Guinevere is…everything to him. She fills his thoughts, his senses. He loves her so much it _ aches_, and he longs for her, pines for her like a lovesick puppy. However, along with this, he’s acutely aware that she’s entirely too good for him. She deserves someone with less of a temper, she deserves someone _ whole_. She shouldn’t have to pick up the broken pieces of a person and put them back together.

“Elyan, I hate to disappoint, but—,”

“Merlin!” Faber’s shout draws his attention, and he stands immediately, ready to fight off whatever is after his friend. Nothing and nobody chases him, however, and Faber doesn’t look panicked, but…excited? Maria follows close behind, face almost as red as her hair. “We have something to tell you!”

They stop just before the pair, and take several moments to catch their breath. Merlin waits patiently, although he finds himself damnably curious.

“Alright?” he prods, gently.

“Yeah, yeah, more than alright!” Maria insists. “We were in the village, and we heard someone talking about…who was it, love?”

“The Fisher King!” Faber says, and Maria nods excitedly. “And his trident! D’ya think that could help us? I mean, the Fisher King was a sorcerer wasn’t he?”

“I…haven’t heard of this man.” Merlin confesses.

“Oh, oh! I have!” Elyan interrupts. 

“What’s going on?” Gwen’s voice comes from behind Merlin, and her hand rests gently on his back.

“Storytime.” Elyan grins. “So, the Fisher King was a sorcerer, yeah. Beautiful kingdom, he had. Only one day, he was gravely injured. It wouldn’t have been a big deal, only he was so powerful, and so devoted to his people and his kingdom, and them to him, that the wound spread from him to the land. That’s the Perilous Lands, now. I’m not certain what good his trident would do us, though.”

“I dunno…” Gwen murmurs. She glances up at Merlin with a soft smile. “Merlin’s pretty powerful. He could make some use of it.”

“Yeah, but the Perilous Lands?” Merlin answers, grimacing. “Is it worth it?”

“I think we should find out.” Gwen shrugs.

“Yeah…” Elyan murmurs. “It sounds fun and all, and it’s a neat story, but I’m not mad enough to attempt the Perilous Lands.”

Merlin furrows his brow in thought.

There’s one person who sticks out in his mind, and he shouldn’t be too far from here.

“Yeah. But I think I might know someone who is.”

* * *

With the horses waiting just outside and ready to move on at a moment’s notice, Gwen wonders what they’re doing in this tavern. It’s loud, dimly lit, and she thinks there might be a brawl going on.

No, there’s definitely a brawl. Merlin just barely ducks in time as something, Gwen thinks it might be a tankard, whizzes past his head. Before she can open her mouth to ask what they’re doing here, a figure falls just at their feet.

Oh, she’d recognise that cheeky grin anywhere.

“Hello, Gwaine.” she says, simultaneously with her companion.

“Merlin! And Gwen! Lovely to see you!”

Merlin’s lips aren’t smiling, but his eyes are. He opens his mouth to respond, but another man beats him to it, shouting,

“Oi! Give me my money!”

Good gods. Gwaine is up on his feet in an instant, grinning like the madman that Gwen believes him to be. Before Gwen really knows what’s happening, Merlin is ushering them out the door, muttering,

“Go, go, we need to go!”

But to his credit, he sounds distantly amused.

The three of them sprint away together, Gwaine laughing madly, and if Gwen isn’t mistaken, Merlin is properly _ grinning_. She can hear the brutes behind them, shouting threats and curses. They hide just behind a stall, and Gwen knows it’s a terrible idea, but even after the short sprint, their new companion seems like he needs to stop for a breath. Makes sense, given that the rogue was brawling just moments before they walked in.

But the men have given chase, and immediately, Gwen and the boys are spotted.

“No, nope!” she urges. “Not here!”

And off they go again. Up a flight of stairs to a loft overlooking the rest of the town, is where they stop once again, thinking (hoping) that they weren’t seen in the crowd.

“So, what did you say you were doing here again?” Gwaine asks.

“We need your help. For a quest.” Merlin responds. They take off running again as the men on the ground spot them, and dash for the stairs they’d hurriedly climbed mere moments ago. There’s not really any way left for them to run, Gwen thinks. They’re about to reach a dead end. 

“Where exactly is this quest taking place?”

“The Perilous Lands.” Gwen answers, laughing breathlessly when she realises just how crazy she sounds.

“Y’know right now, that actually sounds rather appealing.”

Agreed.

Gwaine skids to a halt, quite suddenly, and Merlin nearly crashes into him at the sudden stop. Gwen finds she rather doesn’t like the way he’s eyeing the pile of hay beneath them.

“From here, to the horses.”

“You’ve _ got _ to be kidding!” again, with her and Merlin speaking in unison. No wonder everyone seems to think there’s more going on between them than there really is.

Gwaine merely offers that smile of his again, and shrugs.

Gwen finds herself trying her level best to not laugh when Merlin is bodily shoved off the ledge and to the hay. After landing, the warlock pulls himself to his feet with some trouble, but holds his arms out to beckon her anyway.

“Ladies first?”

“Oh, such a gentleman.”

But she jumps after Merlin anyway, and ignores the brief jolt of dull pain when she falls into his arms.

“Alright?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Look out! Comin’ down!”

The moment Gwaine lands next to them, they’re helping him up, and making a mad dash for the horses. It’s not until they’re safely galloping away that Gwen realises just how _ insane _ that all was, that Merlin is properly laughing, and, much to her surprise, so is she. Leave it to Gwaine to get them tangled into a mess like that.

“By the way!” Gwaine pants, as they continue to make their getaway. “I like the new look, Merls! You almost look like you could be my brother!”

“No, I don’t think so!” Merlin shouts back over the pounding of hooves. “I’m much too handsome to be related to you!”

The joke is so _ normal _ and so like the old Merlin that Gwen surprises herself with a belly laugh.

“Ha! True enough!”

It could be hours, or it could be minutes, before they finally slow their horses down to a trot. It’s silent for a while, but comfortably so. Gwen buzzes with energy, but…in a good way, she thinks.

“So why were those men so angry with you?” Gwen asks.

“It’s always the way in gambling.” Gwaine reports, jovially. “You make a man a fool, he calls you a thief.” Oh, Gwaine. Sweet, foolish, ridiculous Gwaine. “So how did you find me, anyway?”

“Oh, it wasn’t easy.” Merlin sighs. “I’ve been in almost every tavern between here and Camelot.”

Oh, is that what he’d been doing? Makes sense.

“Yeah, so have I.”

Ha.

“So what’s this revolution I keep hearing about, then?” Gwaine continues. “I don’t suppose you two’ve anything to do with that?”

“Who, us?” Gwen drawls. “Never. We are…_ perfect _ angels.”

“Ha! And I’m the King of Mercia. No, but really.”

Gwen sobers, immediately.

“Yes.” She answers softly. “We do.”

Gwaine, for once in his life, seems to take something seriously, as he nods slowly, brows furrowed as he makes an effort to piece everything together.

“I thought you two were close with the princess. Granted, I didn’t know how to feel about Lady Morgana, but I got a good sense about Arthur, at least.”

“Yeah.” says Merlin, gripping the reins tighter. “Not so much, anymore.”

“What happened, if you don’t mind my asking?”

All of Merlin’s good humour seems to vanish, and he goes stiff in the saddle.

“He changed.” is the terse answer. Gwaine’s expression softens. Even he seems to have noticed the sudden change in demeanor, the sudden drop in mood.

“I see.” he murmurs. “Well, regardless, I’ve got to say, it’s pretty amazing. Never would’ve thought you had it in you. Either of you, really. You both seemed so sweet and innocent when we met.”

They were. Relatively, at least. But that’s beside the point.

“Ah, see, then we tricked you.” Gwen says instead. “All a part of our dastardly plan. See, the Pendragons aren’t actually evil at all. We’re secretly dictators out to destroy the world.”

“Oh, yeah, makes sense.” Gwaine quips back. “You definitely seem the evil dictator type. Didn’t have me fooled, not for a second.”

When Merlin lets out an amused huff, and smiles the smallest of smiles, Gwen finds herself relaxing along with him. She’ll check in on him later, when they’ve a moment to themselves. She tells herself that he’s okay, and for once, she believes it.

* * *

Despite the brief tension, and the absolute ludicrousy of the earlier situation, Merlin is glad that they’ve found Gwaine. He’d been trying to find him for weeks, now, intent on asking him to join them. Not only would he be a valuable addition, but Merlin trusted him implicitly, just as he had Lancelot. He’d been a good friend, one who knew Merlin as…Merlin. Not Emrys. Not the leader of an army. Just a regular old serving boy.

He could use more of those friends.

It startles him just how easy he falls back into banter, even though it’s been, well, years. It startles him, but it’s nice, at the same time. Perhaps…perhaps they can find Lance, too. Wouldn’t that be something?

“Here we are.” Gwaine announces. “Perilous Lands are just beyond the forest, there.”

From what Merlin can see, it’s not the ideal place for…anything. It gives off an eerie feeling that he can’t seem to place. Even here, it’s deadly silent. Not even the birds sing, so close to the scarred land. It looks, well, perilous.

“Well it seems…friendly.” Gwen quips.

“Yeah, don’t be fooled, Gwenny. It’s not. Wretched place, believe me.”

“How do you know? You’ve never been there.” Merlin points out.

“I’ve traveled to many places, Merls.”

“Yeah, but never to the Perilous Lands.”

“How do you know that?”

“There aren’t any taverns.”

Laughingly, Gwaine replies,

“See? Told you it was wretched.”

Gwen heaves a sigh, and shakes her head at them.

“Come on, you two. Sooner we finish this, the sooner we’re out of there.”

Hard to argue with that logic.

They don’t ride for very much longer. There comes a place where their horses can’t go, anymore. Together, they stalk forward, silently. It seems safe enough, Merlin supposes, when he sees nobody at the footbridge up ahead. With a shrug, he gestures for the other two to follow him, and steps forward with a confidence that he doesn’t really feel, deep down. Something about this place…

There’s a tingle in the air, and Merlin can recognise it for what it is, and nearly laughs aloud when someone appears on the footbridge.

“Oh!” Gwen exclaims.

“That’s new…” Gwaine murmurs.

“Who wishes to pass my bridge?” the man asks, and though he’s incredibly small in stature, and humbly dressed, Merlin can feel an air of…almost regality about him. He inclines his head politely, and announces,

“These are my friends, Gwaine and Guinevere, and my name is Merlin. We’re on a quest to find the golden trident of the Fisher King.”

The man’s eyebrows lift in recognition and surprise, only for a moment, but it almost seems as if he was expecting them.

“So, Strength, Courage, and Magic all arrive at once. I have to tell you, I wasn’t expecting that. My name is Grettir, and I am the keeper of this bridge. I wish nothing from you, save that you finish your quest, and restore the Fisher King’s lands.”

Gwaine’s eyes narrow, and he glances to Merlin in confusion. Ah, right. He doesn’t know about his magic, does he? Merlin hadn’t the chance to tell him, had he?

“No, our quest was to find the trident…” Gwaine murmurs. Merlin wonders if he’s merely deflecting, if he’ll ask about the Magic thing after they cross the footbridge. 

“That may be the quest you set for yourselves.” Grettir says. “But I think you’ll find the result is going to be different.” his smile is cryptic, and he quite reminds Merlin of a less cranky Kilgharrah. “Now remember, you three need each other to complete your quest. You can’t have Magic, without Strength, and Courage.”

That’s a nice sentiment…

Actually, when Merlin thinks of it…that’s entirely true. It’s not just that he needs his own strength, and his own courage. He needs Gwaine, and he needs Gwen, truly. He already knew he’d be lost without Gwen, and his bond with the rogue had been startling and immediate and _ strong, _so it should hardly be surprising to him, to realise that without the other two, he’d be absolutely useless. But here he is.

It seems nobody has anything to say to that. Merlin steps out of the way, to allow his friends passage first, but just as he moves to follow, Grettir stops him.

“Do not deny the Fisher King what he wants.” he urges. “He’s been waiting many years for this day. You can understand that, can’t you, Magic?”

Merlin presses his lips together, and part of him wants to be angry. In fact, he can feel it, starting to boil deep in his belly. He stamps it down. Grettir meant no offense, he’s certain.

“Yes.” he murmurs. “I can.”

“I thought you might have. Remember, nothing is as it seems. Off you go, then.”

Merlin is silent as he rejoins his party. He wonders how long this quest has been set for them. Surely, if the whole Destiny crap was to be believed, it was laid out centuries before they were even born. But Destiny is fickle. In only a couple of years, the plan the gods had set was laid to ruin, wasted away to practically _ nothing_. They must be pretty sour, he supposes, to know that it was mere mortals who dashed all their carefully thought out circumstances, that single handedly rewrote the story they’d perfected over the years.

Or maybe Kilgharrah got it wrong. Maybe everyone got it wrong. Who’s to say? It hardly matters, anymore. Arthur may unite Albion, yes, but he’s going about it brutally. Merlin, and the people he loves and cares for most, are the only ones who can restore peace, and balance. Supposedly.

Gwaine, just ahead of them, happily chatters along, speaking of his many adventures since last he saw them. Merlin only half listens, mind still on what Grettir said, still on his role in the story that will surely be remembered for the rest of eternity. Gwen reaches down, grabs his hand. She responds to Gwaine when appropriate, and rubs her thumb along the back of Merlin’s hand. The gesture is soft, familiar and comforting, and Merlin can feel the tension leak out of his shoulders, if only a little.

It’s not ideal, but as the sun sets, they decide that perhaps they should make camp. The Perilous Lands are bad enough during the day, but it’d be absolutely foolish to traverse them at night. There’s plenty of kindling, at least, to get a fire going. Merlin isn’t sure he can sleep. He knows that they should be fine, that if nothing else, at least they can protect themselves from whatever comes along, but the creatures crying in the distance (“Very big pheasants.” Gwaine says) puts him on edge. Still, Gwen urges him to try and rest, guiding his head to her lap as she pulls him to lie down. He has no arguments, and her hand carding through his hair is calming. He doesn’t sleep, no, but with his eyes closed, he relaxes, breathing evening out, mind wonderfully blank, for once.

However, he’s pretty sure that Gwen and Gwaine think him asleep, as their quiet chatter turns to him.

“So what…happened to him, really?” Gwaine is asking. “What did they _ do _to him?”

Gwen’s hand stills momentarily, and her contemplative silence is one that Merlin is quite used to.

“I don’t…it’s not my story to tell.” she whispers. But Merlin…well, he thinks that if anyone could tell his story, that if anyone could talk about it (because he certainly can’t), it’d be Gwen.

“Gwen, I…look, you and Merlin are close. I don’t know what’s going on, or if anything _ is _ going on, but he needs you, and it’s clear. Something…tells me that he wouldn’t mind you talking about it.”

Merlin makes a mental note to remind himself that Gwaine is smarter than he presents himself to be. It’s silent for several moments, and then,

“They…” Gwen takes a deep, shaky breath, her hand in Merlin’s hair becoming more insistent, like she needs to remind herself that he’s here, that he’s (relatively) okay. “Gods, Gwaine, I don’t even know where to start. I’m sure you’ve guessed by now that he has magic.”

“Kind of easy to guess, yeah.”

“They bound it. They…well…first, he killed the king. They forced him to, really. I’d assume they threatened him into it. But before he could be sentenced for treason, he…Gaius took the blame. All the while, here’s Merlin, without his magic. And he could always _ do _ something, he could always find a way to make sure everything would turn out, but he _ couldn’t_. He’d killed the king, and Gaius was executed for it, all in one fell swoop.”

Merlin wills his heart to stop racing, fighting to keep his breath even. He’s fine. He’s fine. It’s all…over now. Gaius will be avenged. As will Leon, and his mother. Relax, Merlin.

“And after that? I didn’t see him for months. There was this…this tower room that he was kept in. Gods, if you could…I don’t know everything that happened, I don’t, but it’s easy enough to guess. I’d only been in the room once, but…everything about it was…the _ instruments, _even the gods forsaken smell of the place…”

She trails off, and it’s dreadfully silent for several moments. Someone, Merlin thinks it might be Gwaine, lets out a long, slow breath, as if trying very hard to keep calm.

“Why?” he asks quietly. “I mean, why Merlin? He’s never been anything other than kind. He…he was a good kid. Which isn’t to say that he’s not, anymore, but I’m not sure I’d use the word ‘kid’ to describe him.”

“That’s the thing, isn’t it?” Gwen retorts softly. “Because he’s only nineteen. He’s turning twenty in a couple of months. He’s so…incredibly young, and he’s been through so much already. When he _ does _sleep, he has nightmares…and, I mean…you have to swear to me that you won’t tell him I told you this. But he was stuck up there for…gods, well over a year. Leon and I had planned to help him escape, only we didn’t want to overwhelm him by just showing up and taking him away. Which, proved to be a terrible idea, really. He…well, he tried to kill himself.”

“Gods…”

“Yeah. He would’ve died, if the collar binding his magic didn’t break. It took him weeks to recover.”

“I take it that’s not all that happened.”

“No. We were making a run for it, trying to escape from Camelot. Somehow Arthur caught wind of it, that Merlin was staying in my house. We still don’t know how. Maybe Morgana scried, I don’t know. But…Leon went back, to try and buy us some time, and…they caught him. He was executed the very next morning.”

“Is that when Merls lost the brightly coloured wardrobe, then? Though, I do have to say, all black suits him."

Sweet Goddess, Gwaine.

“Not…quite. We had to hide for a couple of weeks. Recuperate. We were meant to go to his home village when he was feeling better but how could we? He wasn’t completely healed, and Ealdor would’ve been the first place they looked for us. We figured that, maybe, they would see he wasn’t there, and move on, but…”

“They were waiting for you.”

“Yeah.”

“What happened…?”

Silence, again. Gwen’s hand shakes as her petting becomes almost desperate.

“They killed his mother.” she whispers.

“No.”

“Mm.”

“So he’s in mourning, then.”

“That’s rather obvious, don’t you think?”

Silence falls yet again, and Gwen’s hand stills.

“I have to say…” Gwaine starts, and my, does he sound angry? Merlin’s never heard him take that tone, before. “I don’t usually like to get caught up in political drama, but for Merlin? Count me in.”

Oh thank the _ gods_. Gwen breathes out a quiet sigh of relief, and if Merlin’s head hadn’t been in her lap, resting partially against her stomach, he wouldn’t have felt, or heard it. She resumes gently running his fingers through his hair, and he can feel it as her entire body relaxes.

“I can’t tell you how much that would mean to him. How much it means to me.”

“You guys are my friends.” Gwaine answers. “My only friends. I’m happy to.”

That’s what Gwaine says. But what Merlin hears, is that he’d do anything for them. It’s in his personality. When Gwaine gives himself to someone, he gives all of himself. Whatever he does, he puts everything he has into it. It’s a quality that is both admirable and reckless, but Merlin would be lying if he said he wasn’t overwhelmed by just how much he appreciates that. He can’t say _ just _ how much he appreciates Gwaine’s devotion, because there are no words to describe it.

But it comforts him enough, to lull him into a deep and dreamless sleep.

* * *

Gwen wakes up the next morning, with the fire burned out completely, her head resting upon Gwaine’s shoulder, and Merlin’s head still in her lap. She can’t help but smile gently down at the resting warlock. He’d passed right out the night before, as far as she knows. She’s surprised she managed to sleep, after the conversation she’d shared with Gwaine, and with the, ahem, _ very big pheasants _ roaming about and screeching in the night.

“Good morning!” Gwaine greets as she rouses. “Sleep well?”

“Oh yes.” she yawns. “Your shoulder is very comfortable. Not bony at all.”

“I could do without the sarcasm.”

“Sorry. Spend a year with Merlin, and you’ll get used to it.”

“Is this what I signed up for, then?” He chuckles. Gwen huffs out a laugh, and pulls herself to sit upright and stretch, mindful not to wake Merlin.

“Indubitably. But he’s so incredibly sweet when you give him the chance.”

“Talking about me, are you?” comes the sleepy mumble from Gwen’s lap.

“Always.” Gwaine says. “Anyway, we should get going, you reckon?”

“Yeah.” Merlin grunts as he pulls himself to his feet. “That’d be best, I believe.”

Their meagre camp is packed up quickly, and they’re on their way.

Gwaine was right, this really is a wretched place. There was one point where Gwen hadn’t been watching where she was going, and Merlin had to bodily pick her up and move her, else she fall into what had seemed to be either bogwater, or a really deep mud puddle, one of the two.

(Terrifying as the moment was, Gwen quietly swooned at the show of physical strength. She’s no shame.)

They’re not walking for very long, until the tower comes into view. It’s…well, it certainly doesn’t look welcoming. Even less so, the creatures that circle it, screeching horribly. Come to think of it, isn’t that the sound they’d heard the night before?

“I should’ve known.” Gwaine mutters.

“I’ve never seen creatures like those before…” Merlin replies, hesitantly.

“Wyverns.” Gwaine answers. “They’re distant cousins of the dragon.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Gwen sees Merlin perk up. Immediately, she recalls the story he’d told her of his father, months ago when he was bedridden, how, upon his death, he’d passed his gift on to Merlin, and thus, the already powerful young man was given the ability to command dragons. She hasn’t seen it yet, but, oh she hopes she will soon. He hasn’t had a need to call upon Kilgharrah, yet, and thus, Gwen hasn’t met him. Apparently though, according to Merlin, he’s a cranky old lizard who speaks in riddles and inspires nothing but frustration, and she knows that he is, in fact, the dragon that had almost killed her when he laid siege upon Camelot.

Still. When Gwen meets his eye, she can see the same question she’s asking herself reflected in Merlin’s eye: would he be able to use his abilities with the wyverns as he can with Kilgharrah? She doesn’t want to stick around to find out, but it’s an interesting thought, nonetheless.

The beasts don’t seem to notice them, as they near the tower, or they don’t care. Which is all fine and good. It’s one less thing to worry about, isn’t it? Just to be safe, for extra measure, Gwaine turns and closes the portcullis after they pass through. Wyverns could easily fly over the top, but at least they’ve bought themselves some extra time.

“Split up?” Merlin suggests. Gwen doesn’t necessarily _ want _ to, no, but it’s the easiest way to find what they need. The more time they save, the better. That in mind, they go in their seperate directions.

It must have been a wonderful castle at one point, Gwen thinks. Even if it’s covered in cobwebs and even if the air is stale and the smell entirely unpleasant, she can’t help but think of what it looked like back in its prime. Was it grand? Was the magic so strong that perhaps even someone as mundane as she could feel it in the atmosphere?

With a jolt she realises, she misses home. She may not have been a courtier, merely a handmaiden, but she knew every part of the castle where she worked, like the back of her hand. Every corridor, every passage, still sticks out in her mind, her mental map just as accurate as any drawing. She remembers the smells, the sounds, everything. She remembers mucking about with Merlin as they did their chores, splashing water at each other as they did the laundry, or telling stupid jokes and silly stories as they polished the silver.

She _ aches _ for that time. For the way things were before. She doesn’t mean to get emotional, truly, but tears sting her eyes, her heart pounds in her chest, and the ever present pit in her stomach drops even further. She’s quite suddenly glad that they’ve split up, not wanting her friends to see her like this. She’s a moment to get ahold of herself, for which she’s grateful. She takes a deep breath, and tells herself that, someday soon, she’ll be home again. She’ll explore the castle once more, and perhaps she and Merlin can goof off once again.

She’s fine. She’s fine, and Merlin’s fine, and everything is going to work out. She needs to believe that.

Anxiety mitigated for the moment, Gwen takes one more deep breath and turns around—

—and finds herself face to face with a wyvern. Immediately, she grabs her sword, holding it defensively in front of her. She doesn’t know if it’ll even _ work _, if her blade will pierce the creature’s skin at all, she only needs to get out of here, of the room that she’s found herself in. She continues to back away, as the wyvern stalks forward, menacingly.

There’s another growl from behind her, and she knows even before spinning around that there’s another one. Oh gods. Oh, she’s so _ screwed_. There’s nowhere left to run for her. They’re going to have her for their breakfast, aren’t they? Still, she keeps her sword held out, as she backs away from them both. Still, even as her back hits the wall, she’s determined to go down fighting. Maybe her sword _ will _ work, maybe…

A figure all but leaps in front of her, and Gwen can’t see his face, but as Merlin holds his arms out in front of him, the air of dauntlessness about him that she loves so much rolls off him in waves, and she lowers her weapon, equal parts curious and apprehensive.

She shrieks as one of the wyverns leaps for her friend, but before anything happens—

_ “O drakon! E male so ftengometta tesd'hup'anankes!” _

She’s never heard him speak the draconian language, before. It’s…gods, she has no words to describe it. It sounds like a fierce roar that all but rips itself out of him, and the effect is immediate. Both of the wyverns bow their heads in what almost looks like shame, and stalk out of the room.

Has she mentioned, that she is _ incredibly _ attracted to the man before her?

“Alright, then?”

His voice shakes Gwen out of her shock, and when she looks up at him, he’s smiling gently, though his eyes betray his concern.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Thank you. That’s twice today you’ve saved my life, you know.”

“Ah, who’s counting?” he chuckles. They glance over as pounding footsteps come closer, and Gwaine pops his head in.

“Everything okay…?”

“Had a run in with some wyverns.” Gwen answers. “But it seems to be fine, yeah?”

“Right…” Gwaine answers, eyes narrowed. He seems like he really wants to ask something, but refrains. “So I’ve not seen anything from what I’ve explored. You?”

“No.” Gwen sighs.

“Nothing whatsoever.” Merlin answers, shrugging. “Shall we press on?”

Gwen has no arguments. She wants to get what they came for, and head on out. Rendezvous with their rebels, and hug her brother. She’s had enough of the perilous lands, thank you very much.

It’s clear that her companions have, as well.

* * *

The place is much bigger than Merlin had expected. Somehow, however, he doubts that what they’re looking for will be in the cellars, and it’s not as if they can reach them, anyway. The place is in ruins, and many rooms are blocked off. He merely hopes that this isn’t a fool’s errand. What Grettir had said to him sticks out in his mind. He wonders if they should even bother taking the trident, once they find it.

Perhaps, the real quest, is to free the Fisher King from his pain.

He finds himself stopping, as the trio climbs flight after flight of stairs. There’s…it feels as if something is calling to him, beckoning him to stay on this floor. Curiously, he glances behind him and sees…well that look rather like a throne room, doesn’t it?

“Look at this.” he calls. “Looks like a throne room, hey?”

“Well, if the trident’s going to be anywhere.” Gwen murmurs as she and Gwaine join him. “It’s bound to be in there, right?”

Merlin nods, takes a cautious step forward.

Not cautious enough. The next thing he knows, the tile is sinking under his weight, and before he can react to the stone slab falling from above, Gwaine is pushing him forward to safety. Only, when Merlin looks back, he sees that he’s separated from the rest of his party.

“Gwaine! Gwen! Can you hear me!?”

Silence. If they can hear him, he certainly can’t hear them back. Bugger. There’s got to be a way to open the door, some sort of mechanism. With a sigh, Merlin pushes himself away, and further into the room, searching for a way out. 

However…something draws him to the throne, covered in cobwebs. Is it just him, or…?

“So, Emrys…” comes the hoarse whisper, and no, yeah, there’s definitely someone sitting there. “You are here at last…”

Merlin makes his way forward, curious and apprehensive all at once. The figure that sits upon the throne is corpselike, just as covered in dust and cobwebs as the rest of the place. If it weren’t for the shallow breathing, and the way he turns to look at the warlock, Merlin would think him dead. He clutches a trident in his hand, and the gold of his crown has been long since faded and tarnished.

The Fisher King sits upon the throne. Wounded, and waiting for death.

“So you are still alive…” Merlin can’t help the pity in his voice, can’t help the way he moves forward to kneel in front of the wounded king.

“For now.” slowly, his hand comes to rest on the back of Merlin’s head. There’s a soft crumbling sound, but both hear it nonetheless.

“That’ll be—,”

“Your friends. Strength and Courage, I know. Without them, you would not be here.”

So he’s been told…

“What is it you want, Your Majesty?” he asks, softly, though he feels he already knows the answer.

“I want…an end to my suffering. Surely, you know the feeling, don’t you Emrys?”

“I do.” Merlin whispers. “You’ve been waiting all these years…you no longer wish to be in pain.” he confirms. And Merlin does, he does know the feeling, all too well.

“I have been waiting for the arrival of a new time. The time of the Once and Future King…only it is not who you or I thought it would be. You have suffered a great deal, Emrys, at the hands of the one who you were supposed to share your destiny with. But the time of the King is still coming. For he kneels before me now.”

“I’m not…” Merlin swallows thickly. That…doesn’t sound right. He’s not royalty. He never has been, and he never will be. “I’m no king.”

“Oh, Emrys, how wrong you are. This is why you were brought here. Not for some silly trident…” the dying sovereign glances down at the trident in his hands, and drops it down to the ground with a clatter. “But for something far greater.” where the trident once was, there is a new object in the king’s hand, something that looks curiously like half an hourglass. “Water from the Lake of Avalon. I’ve kept it safe, all these years…waiting for someone to claim it. And that is you. You, Emrys, are the one chosen.”

“I’m not…I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Albion’s time of need, is upon us. You alone can save her. Your powers are great, but you will need help…and that is what I am giving you.”

Slowly, as if the action causes him great pain, the Fisher King extends his hand, offering the water to the young man that kneels before him. Merlin inclines his head, and accepts the gift graciously. Surely, if it is given from this king, if he has kept it safe all these years, then it is the most precious thing Merlin can receive.

“Thank you.” he whispers.

“And you know what you can give me in return.”

“I do.”

As respectfully as Merlin can manage, he stands, and gently extends his arm to rest his hand upon the Fisher King’s forehead. The spell comes to him easily enough, and he can feel the life draining out of the sovereign before him, through him, and out into the land. It’s feels odd. He takes the Fisher King’s wound upon himself, but he feels the pain for only a moment before his body works on healing itself. Everything else…every good thing about the man who once ruled this place, flows through him, down to his feet and out and into the ground.

When Merlin opens his eyes, the Fisher King is gone.

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and only when he feels a trickle of moisture on his cheek does he realise he’s crying.

_ “Thank you, Emrys.” _ with that final whisper, the presence of the king is gone.

Merlin wipes his eyes, as the door opens just a little, and Gwen crawls her way under the gap, followed closely by Gwaine.

“Merlin!” she exclaims, and rushes over to him, wrapping her arms around him. “Gods, I was so worried. Are you alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine…”

“Did something happen?” Gwaine asks, gently, and moves in for his own hug when Gwen pulls away.

“I…I believe I just met the Fisher King.” Merlin replies.

“So he is still alive?”

“Was.” Merlin corrects. “He’s gone, now.” Gwen seems to understand, and gently lays a hand on his arm.

“I’d assume it was a relief for him, after so long.” she murmurs. “You did the right thing.”

“And got the trident.” Gwaine offers as he jogs to pick it up. “Doesn’t seem special at all, does it? I suppose it’ll make a nice decoration, or something.”

Merlin can’t help but chuckle, watery though it may be.

“Come on.” Gwen urges. “Let’s get out of here.”

He’s more than happy to.

His thoughts stray back to the Fisher King’s words. Once, so very long ago it seems, Kilgharrah had referred to Arthur as the Once and Future King. But kneeling in the throne room, the title had been applied to Merlin. Merlin, a country boy. Merlin, a servant. He’s nothing special, truly. He’s had all this power since the day he was born, but never once has he used it for his own gain, never once has he thought himself of importance. He’s doing what he can for his people, now. He’s doing what he can to liberate the oppressed. But there is nothing regal about him. He is not meant to be king, he’s sure.

A gasp draws his attention as they step out into the sun, and when he looks up, he finds himself utterly speechless. What had once been a wasteland, is now full of life once more. The grass is green and healthy, swaying happily in the breeze. The trees stand tall and proud, the birds sing once more. The lands are restored, just as Grettir had hoped. When the king had died, when Merlin had taken the wound upon himself, the lands were healed. He takes a moment to appreciate it, to soak in the bittersweet.

He can do this, he thinks. If he can restore the Perilous Lands back to their former glory, he can restore balance to the Five Kingdoms.

With a little help from Strength and Courage, and all that encompasses them, of course.

Together, the trio make their way down the path ahead, and for the first time in a while, Merlin can feel the beginnings of hope, blossoming in his heart.

* * *

Gwen is more than happy to return to their camp. She introduces Gwaine to her brother, and they hit it off immediately, for which she’s glad.

She surveys her people, and finds herself infinitely glad that they’re all here, that they’re all safe for the moment, that they’re happy. The camp buzzes with energy, people talking and laughing and training and going about their business. It’s just about dinner time, the trio having arrived just after lunch, and she and Maria set to work cooking the evening meal for the lot.

Gwen glances over, to look at Merlin. He goes around to the rebels, one by one, seeing after their needs, and just…being there with them. It’s a strange feeling that strikes her in that moment…he’s so…natural. He looks not unlike a king caring for his subjects.

A memory hits her, out of nowhere. Leon had insisted that Merlin be installed on the throne, should the revolution be a success. At the time, they all thought he’d been joking, even Merlin, but Gwen had noticed that he seemed…rather serious about it. And now that she’s looking at him, with their rebels? Now that she’s seen his qualities as a leader? She finds herself completely and wholeheartedly agreeing.

He may not have been born as much, but for as long as Gwen has known him, Merlin has carried himself with a regal air. It’s not just that he’s almost unnaturally handsome, she supposes. Everything about him, from the way he talks when he’s giving instruction, to the speeches he gives, to his very posture, seems to Gwen like that of a prince.

And he _ cares _ for his people, genuinely. It’s not just a general surveying his army. It’s a man who wants to know all about the people, who treats their wellbeing with the utmost importance. He is the king that Camelot deserves, he is the man who will avenge the fallen, and restore peace to the land, just as he had done earlier that day.

The raw power it must’ve taken, not only to take the Fisher King’s life in an act of mercy, but to direct it all back into the land, to heal the scar that had been there for centuries. Merlin is humble to the point where it becomes irritating, for how can he not see what a powerful young man he is? How can he not see that he has everything it takes, and more?

He would never be cruel, or unjust. He would never take his position for granted. Even if he went from rags to riches, greed is simply not in his nature. Sure, there are things, technical aspects, that he must learn, but Gwen truly believes that when the time comes, he _ will _ ascend the throne. He is the Once and Future King. She knows it.

She can see it, now. If she closes her eyes, she can see the coronation clearly in her mind. There he will stand, surrounded by the people he trusts most. Calm and regal, as the crown is placed atop his head. He’ll stand straight and tall, and the people will _ rejoice_, for their king has finally come home, and taken his rightful place. Long live the king, they’ll say, long live the king!

There’s a ways to go, before that time comes to pass, but Gwen finds herself giddy with the thought of it, eager for the day he rises to his Destiny.

* * *

Once more, Merlin’s thoughts stray to the conversation he’d had that morning. He knows, yes, he knows that his magic will restore the peace and harmony. But he cannot see himself upon the throne. He was always meant to stand behind the monarch, to offer his aid and his guidance where it was needed. Royal garments are stuffy, and crowns seem uncomfortable. It is not the life for him.

But as he looks to Gwen, as he watches her oversee her camp, a funny feeling falls over him. She was born into a serving family, she has such a humble background, and yet…

She’s always held herself with a dignified air. She’s always held her ground where she needed to. For a handmaiden, she’s always carried herself gracefully…regally. And what’s more? She’s kind, and she’s just, and she does whatever it takes to keep her people safe, and protected.

The thought is sudden and striking when it hits him, and Merlin can’t believe he hadn’t ever thought of it before. If this revolution should succeed, then…

Gwen should be queen.

She’s the monarch that Camelot needs. She could never reign with tyranny, she could never succumb to corruption. She’s not innocent, no, but she’s _ pure _. She represents all things good, and sacred. She knows the people, because she is the people. She would know how to balance what the kingdom needs and what it wants, she would be a kind, and fair ruler, firm when she needs to be.

And Merlin will happily stand behind her, happily give all his support, to protect her and her kingdom.

Sure, there are aspects that she must learn. There are things she doesn’t know about ruling a country, that you can’t just learn by leading an army and planning a rebellion. But she can learn, that’s the beauty of it. There are people to help her, teach her. And oh, she’ll pick it up quickly. She’s a quick learner, isn’t she? And there’s no doubt that everyone, from her subjects to kind courtiers, will do anything they can to help.

The imagery hits him like a vision from the gods, and it’s so vivid that it _ must _ be one. Gwen, with her kind and gentle face, Gwen, richly dressed in the garb of a queen, kneeling as the crown is placed atop her head. And she’ll stand, and she’ll smile, and the people will shout for joy, and sing in rapture. Long live the Queen, they’ll say, _ Long live the Queen! _

It’s going to be a long time, before they can even think about that. They’ve a war to prepare for, after all. They’ve lives to save, and people to avenge. Still, Merlin finds himself grinning at his thoughts, grinning like a fool as he thinks about Gwen, as he thinks about what she’ll rise to do. Here, in this moment, he’s certain.

The Fisher King was wrong. There will be no time of the Once and Future King. Instead, there will be a time of the Once and Future Queen. And Merlin can’t wait for the day that Guinevere fulfills her destiny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my dear beans u.u
> 
> when I say: Disaster Family.
> 
> but I love them so.
> 
> anyhoooooooo, we get to meet a little hatchling next chapter, so, stay tuned :D


	8. The Dragonling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A treasure beyond all treasures, lies in wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I KNOW, I SUCK. only, i got a job at an amazon fulfillment center, and discovered that i am not, in fact, cut out for warehouse work :) so i've been recuperating from that, and then, the holidays, and then, i moved into my dorm so that was fun and crazy and also i'm homesick so that's fun.
> 
> anyway. i don't like this chapter. it was supposed to be a major plot point but turned into a filler. oops. i hope you enjoy, anyway!

_ Hands…teeth…tongue…pulling, choking, scratching, badbadbad— _

** _‘Say my name, Merlin.’_ **

_ ‘No…’ _

** _‘Say it!’_ **

_ ‘Arthur please—!’ _

** _‘Good boy.’_ **

_ Agony. Fear. His mind is not his own. She’s cruel. It hurts…it HURTS. _

** _‘You are nothing.’_ **

_ ‘No!’ _

** _‘Worthless!’_ **

_ ‘NO!’ _

** _‘There, now, Pet. Don’t you worry…’_ **

“NO!”

At the sound of his own voice trembling out of his mouth, Merlin awakens with a jolt. Desperately, he looks around, expecting to see Them, expecting to be back in his tower, expecting to feel the weight of his collar about his throat. His hand flies up to his neck, but all he feels is his skin. The only thing that meets his eye, is the inside of his tent.

He’s fine. He’s safe. It’s been well over a year since he’s gained his freedom. He’s alright.

But he’s not getting back to sleep anytime soon.

With a groan, he pulls himself out of his bedroll, shivering in the late February air. Winter has been difficult for them. Every day, the threat of freezing to death looms over their heads. Yes, with more rebels comes more provisions, with more support from foreign lords and monarchs that wish to end this war before it even begins, comes more donations of food and blankets and everything they need. King Caerleon and Queen Annis, in particular, have been exceedingly generous, even going so far as to offer their home to the rebels should they ever pass through.

However…the winter has been harsh, and Merlin fears what might happen should spring not come soon.

Sighing, Merlin dons his cloak and steps outside, boots crunching softly in the snow. Barely anyone sleeps outside anymore, most everyone huddled together for warmth in the tents. Merlin is the only one who sleeps alone, for which he’s grateful. He’d offer, surely! But nights like this are common, and he doesn’t wish to disturb anyone. Perhaps he should cut his losses, and join in on sentry duty each night. Only Gwen would pitch a fit if he did that, so, best not.

“Where you headed, Merls?”

Right. He’d forgotten it was Gwaine’s turn tonight. Along with Elyan. The pair of them gaze at him, poorly concealed concern dancing about in their eyes.

“Alright?” Elyan asks, gently. “Only we heard you shout, so…”

“I’m fine.” Merlin lies. “Bad dream, is all.”

They know better than to pry.

“Figured I’d go for a walk.” he continues. “Clear my head.” Elyan looks like he wants to argue, but thinks better of it.

“Don’t be out too long.” he says. “There’ll be hell to pay if Gwen finds out you were gone for hours.”

“There’s going to be hell to pay if Gwen finds out we let him go at all.” Gwaine chuckles. Merlin can’t help but smile fondly, because yeah, that much is true.

“I won’t be.” He assures. “Just need a minute to myself.”

“Fair enough.” Elyan relents, and off he and Gwaine go to continue their duties.

At the moment, Merlin doesn’t so much mind the cold, not really. It grounds him, pulls him out of his mind and into the present. He focuses on the sharpness of it as it fills his lungs, focuses on the cloud of vapor that accompanies every exhale. _ Breathe, Merlin, just breathe… _

But the tears still come, unbidden. The panic ebbs and flows normally, but with every touch he can still feel, with every cruel word he can still hear, it crashes upon him like a wave, and threatens to cripple him. He’s glad that he’s no longer in earshot of the camp, because he truly doesn’t want them to see, or hear him break down like this. He knows that they wouldn’t care if he were to admit that he’s not okay one hundred percent of the time, he knows that they already think him so strong in the face of everything, that crying every once in a while is normal, healthy even. But it doesn’t feel like strength, to him. It feels like an admission of weakness. Yes, he escaped, but the way he did…

Best not think about that.

A whimper escapes him, and gods, for as grounding as the cold had been earlier, now…it just reminds him of the night he tried to end his own suffering. He’s back there, suddenly. He’s standing on the wall, and the cold metal collar is freezing onto his neck, and he can’t breathe, he can’t _ breathe_, and he just wants this to _ end_. No more hands in his hair, no more scratching and pulling, no more teeth biting into the back of his neck, please, _ please_, no more pain, no more whips or brands or visions of torment and suffering, no more, _ no more— _

“Dear Emrys…” comes a whisper, and it’s sudden and startling enough that Merlin snaps out of his mind, finally. “You have been through a great deal, haven’t you?”

Through the tears still blurring his vision, Merlin can see several figures, but for some reason, he doesn’t find himself tensing, or rapidly trying to pull himself together. There’s something calming about them, the way they move. It’s not until he sees the clothes they wear, sees several triskelion tattoos on several wrists, that he realises why.

He should hardly be surprised that he’s been found out here by the druids.

A man, who seems to be the leader, lowers his hood to reveal greying hair and kind, blue eyes. He steps forward, purposefully and carefully, and offers a hand to the kneeling warlock, which is strange, because Merlin can’t remember falling to his knees in the first place.

“There, now.” the man soothes, and though his face remains blank, Merlin finds himself calming nonetheless. “It’s alright to let your strength waver, Emrys. For you cannot be strong all of the time.”

Yeah, yeah, so he’s heard. Voice rough and raspy, he asks,

“Who are you…?”

“I am Iseldir.” the man answers. His voice is calm, and almost emotionless, but it eases Merlin’s nerves regardless. “And I’ve come to ask you a favor, though I admit our timing was poor.”

“That’s alright.” Merlin answers. “What is it?”

“Something has been stolen from us. A part of a triskelion.”

“Would you like me to retrieve it for you?”

“It is not the triskelion that we wish to have back, no.” Iseldir sighs. “It is what will be done with it. If the man that stole from us succeeds in his endeavor to steal the third and final piece from the vaults in Camelot, he will have in his possession, the one and only key to the Tomb of Ashkanar.”

“I’m afraid I’m not familiar…”

“I see. Ashkanar was a man who had a dragon’s egg in his possession. Upon his death, the egg was secured in his tomb, where it has remained for over four hundred years.”

Sweet Goddess…a _ dragon’s egg? _ Merlin had thought that Kilgharrah was the last of his kind, that the magnificent species would die out, and be lost forever. Gods, wait until the cranky old lizard hears about _ this! _ He’ll be overjoyed!

“But the thief, Julius Borden, means to steal it. Possess the dragon for his own. This must not happen, Emrys. And should he be discovered, the Pendragons will follow him. Surely they’ll wish to possess the creature themselves, and use it against you in your mission.”

“Dragons cannot be possessed.” Merlin retorts. “They are creatures of magic. Only a Dragonlord can command them.”

“Be that as it may, what do you think will happen, while it’s a hatchling? Surely dragons can be twisted and manipulated just as humans can be. All living beings can be corrupted, and for the sake of the poor creature, I must request that you get to the tomb before them, that you protect the egg with all you have.”

Merlin, lips pressed into a thin line, nods once, in answer.

“I promise.”

“Be forewarned, Emrys. Ashkanar knew that some would seek to disturb his rest. Remember that the triskelion is not only a key, but a trap.”

Makes…sense?

“Yeah, alright. I’ll be careful.”

“And remember these words: Only when the way ahead seems impossible, will you have found it. We shall meet again, Emrys, someday soon, for Albion’s fate rests upon your shoulders.”

“Wait—!” But just like that, they’re gone. “Druids.” Merlin mutters, shaking his head. But he’s buzzing with quiet joy. A dragon’s egg! Never in his life, did he think he’d receive such wondrous news. Nightmares forgotten, he lifts his head to the sky to call Kilgharrah, and wrings his hands together as he waits. Gods, what news!

The dragon is disgruntled as he lands, not that Merlin could blame him of course, and narrows his eyes at the Dragonlord.

“What is it, Merlin?” he demands.

“And here I thought you’d be glad to see me. Do you know the way to the Tomb of Ashkanar, by chance?”

“The Tomb of Ashkanar? Why, yes, however I do not see what it has to do with anything.”

“You know the legends.” Merlin huffs. “You know them all. A man named Julius Borden has two parts of the triskelion. Word is that he’s gone to Camelot to retrieve the third piece. You _do_ know what this means, don’t you?”

Kilgharrah’s eyes widen in recognition and understanding, and Merlin would almost find his apparent shock amusing, if he didn’t feel the exact same way.

“The egg is to be retrieved.”

“Yes, exactly, but I have to make sure it doesn’t wind up in Borden’s hands, or Arthur and Morgana’s.”

“The race of the century.” Kilgharrah agrees. “I shall help you, should you need me to.”

“Thank you, Kilgharrah. If we cut them off, and I can retrieve the egg before them…” Merlin’s face splits into a wide grin. “You’re no longer going to be the last of your kind.”

“I never thought I’d see the day…” the dragon murmurs. “It is a long journey. You must set off at once.”

“Give me until sunrise, okay? I just need to gather some things.”

Kilgharrah nods his head once.

“Alright. But you must hurry, Young Warlock.”

“I know. I promise, I will make sure that your glorious species does not come to an end.”

As is his sacred duty.

* * *

Gwen awakens to a frantic hand upon her arm, shaking her out of her slumber. As her sleep addled mind struggles to catch up, she blinks her eyes open and looks over her shoulder to see who could possibly need her awake at the moment. The sun’s barely even started to rise. However, upon seeing Merlin’s face, she bolts upright, immediately concerned.

“What’s wrong?” she demands, “Has something happened?”

But he doesn’t look panicked, and he doesn’t even look worried about anything. In fact, Gwen would go as far as to say he looked excited about something.

“Nothing’s wrong, but I need you to gather your things. I’ve already spoken to Elyan and Gwaine, and they agreed to be left in charge, but there’s someplace we need to go. I’ll explain it on the way, come on!”

He scurries out of her tent, slipping and falling in his haste, but as he scrambles to his feet, he turns around to give her a smile, before scurrying off again. As much as she loves it, she wonders what was so amazing that he’d be acting like his old self again. The moments are few and far between, and she doesn’t wish to question the blessing.

Still…

Quickly and quietly, Gwen gathers her pack together, and joins Merlin at the edge of the camp, where he all but bounces on the balls of his feet as he waits for her, horses readied. Immediately, as she joins him, he helps her mount her mare and hastily climbs into his own saddle.

“What’s this about, then?”

“I’ll explain on the way.” he tells her. “But we need to hurry.”

He says nothing else, but urges his mare, and Gwen has no choice but to follow. She wonders what the hell could’ve possessed him to get like this, not that she’s complaining. The boyish wonder he exhibits is…contagious, and she’s barely even surprised to find that she is just as excited as he, even if she has no idea where they’re going or what they’re doing.

It’s…a lot to take in, when he explains. She doesn’t know who this Ashkanar bloke even was, or why he had a dragon egg, or even why he hid it in his own tomb. Maybe, like the Fisher King all those months ago, he’d had a vision, a knowledge, or even an inkling about what was yet to come, that a man like Uther would come along and seek to destroy everything of magic in his bereaved rage, and ignorant hatred. Or maybe he just didn’t want the poor creature to fall into the wrong hands. After all, she’s sure there were rogue Dragonlords, men unlike Merlin or his father or even his father’s father, who would’ve sought to use dragons as a weapon, a way to strike fear into the hearts of men.

No matter what, Gwen’s just glad that the egg has survived this long. That one of those magnificent creatures remained untouched by Uther's madness and his violence, that Kilgharrah’s species won’t come to an end. She’s only met the Great Dragon once, since the Perilous Lands. Yet…she wasn’t scared of him, like she thought she might be. He’d been terrifying in his attack on Camelot, yes, because he was angry, for gods’ sakes, he was breathing _ fire_. But seeing him calm, up close, and polite (he even apologised, which Merlin was surprised about), and seeing his golden scales glinting in the sunlight, had stolen the breath from her lungs, the words from her lips. He was… _ beautiful_, he really was. Elegant, even. 

She wonders what this one will look like. If the egg hatched, or if they would have to find a way to hatch it. It may be the race of the century, but Gwen finds herself practically vibrating at the wonder and excitement that courses through her veins.

“You must be excited.” she says. “I mean…this is a once in a lifetime opportunity, Merlin.”

“Oh, I know,” he whispers, eyes shining in a way she hasn’t seen in years. “It’s…this is incredible, truly. I don’t even have words, Gwen.”

She doesn’t doubt as much. If she’s speechless, she can’t imagine how the Last Dragonlord would feel.

There’s no chatter as they ride, but the silence is the furthest thing from heavy. Gwen hasn’t seen Merlin frown once, since they’ve set off. Not even the prospect of seeing the Pendragons seems to set him off. He’s not even _ thinking _ about them, she can tell. Only of the darling hatchling that’s about to bless their lives. In fact, even Gwen barely notices as night begins to fall, and even she wants to push this for as long as they can, both of them loathe to stop and make camp, even when they have to.

“So who’s this Borden fellow?” Gwen asks, as Merlin gets the fire going.

“I hadn’t heard of him before Iseldir spoke of him.” he admits. “I would assume that he’s nothing more than a common thief, but…what would a common thief want with a dragon egg?” 

She’s no idea whatsoever— and expresses as such with a shrug. Pensive silence settles over them once again, and for a moment, several minutes in, Merlin opens his mouth, and he looks like he wants to say something, but a sound cuts him off— the rustling of the bushes, not too far from them. Both of them are up in an instant, blades drawn, and Gwen, having become attuned to the feeling somehow, can feel the magic buzzing just beneath Merlin’s skin, ready to attack should the need arise. If she pays close enough attention, she can almost _ see _his eyes just on the verge of that breathtaking golden hue.

Their hands tighten on the handles of their weapons, as a man they don’t recognise crashes through, stopping just before him. He looks…startled, almost. No, no…he looks _ terrified._ Merlin is the first to sheath his sword, and holds his hands up in a placation, the crackling energy of his magic beginning to diminish. Only then, only when his power has settled, does Gwen relax, as well.

“Easy…” Merlin answers. “It’s alright. We won’t hurt you.”

The man’s wide, earthen eyes, seem to lose that edge of panic. Something about him, however…Gwen can’t quite place it. She doesn’t trust him, though. She doesn’t know if she should. But if he needs their help…

“What’s your name?” she asks, gently. It takes a moment, and the man’s eyes narrow as he looks back and forth between the two of them. Finally, _ finally_, the tension leaks from his shoulders, and he opens his mouth to answer,

“My name is Julius.” he answers. “Julius Borden.”

The tension is immediately back in Merlin’s shoulders, and Gwen can feel it tighten in her belly, too. Only for a moment, and they force themselves to relax once more, and if they didn’t spend so much time together, they wouldn’t have noticed it happening in each other. Merlin forces a kind smile, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and offers an arm.

“Nice to meet you. If you don’t mind my asking…what are you running from?”

“I…heh…I did something rather foolish…” Borden admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “I…took something from the Pendragons. I’d had these two parts of a key, you see, and it was rumoured that the third piece was in Camelot, and I…” He’s certainly a convincing actor, Gwen thinks. Conveniently leaving out the part where he stole the second piece from the druids, and nobody knew where he got the first piece. “I took it…”

“Key?” Gwen tries, feigning ignorance. “Key to what?”

Borden eyes them suspiciously, draws back from them, slightly. Merlin and Gwen exchange a glance; perhaps if they gain his trust, he’d lead them to the Tomb himself.

“You can trust us.” Merlin assures, holding his hands up once again. “I’m Merlin, and this is Gwen. Wherever it is you’re going— we can escort you, and make sure no harm comes to you. I promise.”

It’s then, that Borden’s eyes widen in recognition. My, are they really that famous?

“Merlin and Gwen. As in Emrys and Guinevere. As in the rebel leaders.”

“Guilty.” Gwen answers, as Merlin grumbles,

“Please don’t call me that.”

Borden stares at them for a long while, and Gwen can see a flicker of…something in his eyes, and she’s not sure she likes it. He’s cocky, she can tell, and he _ must _think he has them fooled. He does not. Does he not understand that the druids are allied solely with Merlin? Foolish, foolish man.

“So I really must be safe with you two, then.” Borden chuckles. “You promise you’ll escort me, safely?”

“You have our word.” Gwen promises. “Come, sit down. We’ve just made camp for the night. You must be exhausted…”

He doesn’t tell them anything they don’t know, as he sits down with them. He spins a different tale, however, about having _ found _ both parts of the triskelion, about his harrowing adventure in doing so. He tells them all about how he merely wants to free the creature, to see the magnificent species thrive once more, after Uther attempted to rid the world of their existence. Gwen doesn’t believe a word of it, and she really, truly hopes it doesn’t show. Merlin remains impassive, expressionless, which has come to be expected of him by the general public.

(Sometimes it’s easy for Gwen to forget that the only person he really…shows emotion to is, well, _ her. _ And if not her, then Elyan and Gwaine.)

“We can help you.” Merlin says at last, when Borden finishes his tall tale. “If you want us to.”

“You’d…you’d do that?” Borden questions, seemingly in disbelief. “I mean, don’t you have your hands a bit full?”

“Yes and no.” Merlin responds, shrugging. “A small detour won’t crumble the revolution, surely.”

“I…this is so unexpected. Thank you.”

“Our pleasure.”

* * *

Borden is an idiot, Merlin decides.

No, they’re not going to _ kill _ him or anything, Merlin doesn’t play by the same rules as the Pendragons do. However, the man is _ awfully _ stupid to be leading Merlin and Gwen to the exact place they wanted to be. Merlin doesn’t trust him, a single bit, nor does he trust the web of lies he spins, about wanting nothing more than to see the dragon freed. There’s an ulterior motive, one that Merlin isn’t sure of yet, but he can guess that it’s like what Iseldir told him. Borden doesn’t want to do free the dragon for the dragon’s sake, he wants to control it. What for, Merlin isn’t sure. Still, Borden’s smiles seem just a bit too sweet, his attitude seems a bit too ‘helpful’, as it were.

For what it’s worth, however, he seems to be fooled by the pretense that Merlin and Gwen put up. For the most part, at least. A seed of doubt is nothing to worry about— a seed of doubt is easily crushed beneath their feet. Merlin can play the devoted, if traumatised leader. That’s nothing new for him. Borden knows him as Emrys, yes, but he doesn’t seem to know of his other title. He doesn’t seem to know of the power Merlin had inherited upon his father’s death. 

Good.

And if he didn’t know any better? He’d think that Gwen believed the man before him. She’s a convincing actress, surely. Merlin holds back a smile every time her own melts into a look of irritation whenever Borden’s back is turned. It seems she, too, just wants to get this over with if only to be rid of the ass. She exchanges several glances with her partner, her co-leader, in exasperation, as they travel throughout the next day.

“I swear if he doesn’t _ shut up_.” Gwen whispers to him, late in the afternoon, and Merlin has to physically bite his tongue to keep from laughing aloud.

“I know the feeling…” he murmurs.

It’s several hours into the day, before they hear Borden groan in frustration ahead of them. 

“What’s the matter?” Merlin questions.

“Dead end!” Borden reports. “I was so certain…all of my research pointed to…”

Merlin glances ahead, at the waterfall in front of them. It’s impossible to climb, clearly. And it’s not like they can go _ through _ it, really. Maybe Borden got it wrong. How annoying. They wasted so much time…

_ 'Only when the way ahead seems impossible, will you have found it.' _

Yet the words Iseldir spoke to him stick out in his mind suddenly. No, surely not…but it’s not as if they have any other option, do they?

“Wait.” Merlin urges, and dismounts his horse. He knows the dear old mare will stay put for him, and leaves her there as he wades into the water.

“The hell are you going?” Borden demands. Merlin ignores him, instead reaching into the falls, feeling no barrier. Cautiously, he steps in, and grins when he sees the world open back up, just at the end of the tunnel. Popping his head and an arm back out to the other side, he motions them over, calling,

“It’s alright! Just a clever hiding place is all!”

Now would be a good time to leave Borden behind, he thinks, but part of him is curious as to what his motives are. Not to mention, he has the triskelion, and Merlin and Gwen do not. They’ve only got to deal with him for a little while longer, though, haven’t they? A day, at most. 

Gwen quickly splashes after him, eagerly rejoining his side, although Borden follows with uncertainty. It’s not until they’re through the other side that his eyes widen in sudden recognition, for surely, the tower in the distance is the tomb he’d supposedly read about and searched for all this time.

“There it is…” Borden murmurs. “Good gods, it’s real.”

Merlin refrains from saying something like _ obviously_, or _ yeah, no shit, we can see it. _But he really, really wants to. Instead, he turns to Gwen, rubs her arms to attempt to stave off the cold. 

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. I’ll warm up. Come on.”

Their clothes and their hair are close to freezing, and if they don’t actually warm up soon, they themselves could wind up freezing to death. However, Borden puts up a fight when Merlin suggests they make camp. Insists they press on.

“Come on, we’re almost there! Maybe an hour or two more!”

He sounds like a whiny child.

“And an hour or two could be the difference between life and death.” Merlin huffs, patience wearing thin. “We’re soaked, and it’s frigid out here.”

The silence is filled only by the chattering of teeth, as Borden stares Merlin in the eye. Merlin, in response, refuses to look away. In a silent battle of wills, he refuses to bow down, not anymore, and especially not to someone as insignificant as the man before him.

Eventually, Borden backs down.

Thankfully, their packs seemed to have made it out relatively unscathed, although their bedrolls are a bit damp. No matter, they’d be easy enough to dry. In fact…_ in fact… _

A smirk finds its way to Merlin’s lips, and with a whispered spell, a strong, warm wind whips around them for several seconds, drying their clothes and their belongings. Gwen’s hair might be a bit messy for a while, but she doesn’t seem to mind, giggling in delight as the wind dies down. Borden, however, looks well and truly startled, which Merlin finds _ endlessly _ amusing. 

“Could’ve warned me.” he mutters, to which Merlin responds with a shrug, smirk widening.

“More fun this way.”

“Oh, is it?”

“It is.”

“Boys.” Gwen admonishes, but she looks like she wants to join in, for what it’s worth. “That’s enough. Come on, let’s see what we can scrounge up for food, yeah? Everyone gets a job.”

Everyone gets a job alright, but Merlin doesn’t take his eyes off of Borden for a single second. The older man seems to know it, too, and glances over every now and then, attempting a smile to throw off suspicion. Like it could be that easy.

“Say…” Borden says to him, quietly, as Gwen busies herself out of earshot. “Are the rumors true? Were you apprenticed under Gaius, when he was court physician of Camelot?”

Merlin can feel the anger, red-hot and overwhelming, course through him. How dare he? How _ dare _ he use Gaius as a way to gain favour? But Merlin stamps it down, instead nodding mutely, and saying nothing, not caring if Borden sees him or not. But apparently, he does, because he has the sheer _ audacity _ to follow up with, 

“And is it also true that he took your place on the gallows, just to save your life, _ after _you’d already willingly committed high treason?”

It takes everything within Merlin’s power to not punch this creep as hard as he can, and as many times as he can, in the face. With a sharp inhale, Merlin’s grip on the firewood tightens, until his knuckles turn white, and this time? This time he can’t control the expression on his face. He wants Borden to _ know _that he stepped out of line.

“Not that it’s any of your _ business_,” he spits. “But if you must know, yes. Arthur and Morgana had me kill Uther, and when I was going to be hanged for _ their _ plan, Gaius took the fall for me, despite how I tried to stop him. Simple as that.”

Silence passes between them for several seconds, and for a while, Borden actually looks…regretful, even a little apologetic.

“I see…” He whispers. He fiddles with a twig for several more moments, and, much to Merlin’s chagrin, opens his mouth once more. “You two must’ve been very close, then. For Gaius to stick his neck out like that. He didn’t do that for many people. I was under the impression that Gaius was in it…for Gaius.”

“You didn’t even know him.” Merlin hisses.

“Oh, on the contrary. I was his student, once. Got myself in a spot of trouble with Uther, but who didn’t in those days? You breathed wrong and you were a sorcerer. He helped me escape, of course, but never would’ve gone that far.”

Merlin eyes him for a moment, trying to discern whether or not the man is telling the truth. Using Gaius as a way to start a conversation, especially the subject of his untimely demise, placed him lower than he already was in Merlin’s opinion. The Warlock had thought him annoying at first, an idiot, but now he just plain cannot stand the arsehole, and he has half a mind just to forcibly take the key from him and leave him here to rot.

“Gaius usually had a very good judge of character. If he didn’t help you any further than the absolute minimum, Julius, it’s probably because you didn’t deserve much more.”

That being said, Merlin stands, extends his hand to the firepit, and spits the incantation to light it, all but stomping away just to get Borden out of his face. When he doesn’t follow, Merlin decides it’s the first smart thing Borden’s done since joining up with them. Merlin doesn’t say much for the rest of the evening, not even to Gwen. She doesn’t pry but, angel that she is, sits close to him, her head resting upon his shoulder, a gentle hand at the base of his neck, rubbing away the tension almost absentmindedly. 

“D’you think they’ll have followed him?” she asks, quietly. Merlin knows exactly who she means.

“More than likely. Doesn’t matter. Let them come.”

If anything, he wants to see the looks on their faces when they see him. He’s not the boy that ran away almost two years ago now, despite dreadful moments where he feels like it. Let them see, however, how Merlin, and gods, how _ Gwen _ has grown, let them see the mass weapon the pair has forged for the sole purpose of destroying the Pendragon name, for the sole purpose of reuniting the land as it should be united. Let them come, and let them see, and please, Gods, let them feel the fear and uncertainty, let them feel the _ pain _ that they inflicted upon Merlin, and so many others. And, my, isn’t that funny? When he was a teenager, before everything happened, Merlin didn’t hate. He didn’t wish horrible things upon people, no matter what they’d done. He’d said aloud before how he hated Arthur, how he hated Morgana, and he’s certainly thought it before, many many times. But now, just now, he’s beginning to see the severity of the feeling. He’s beginning to see it corrupt his heart, and darken his soul, and he hates it, Gods, he hates it, but he can’t stop it, and it won’t ever stop, and the only thing he feels when he thinks about the death of Arthur, once his best friend, and the death of Morgana, whom he used to _ love _ with everything he had, the only thing he feels now at the thought of their demise is _ joy_, and it’s _ terrifying_.

He doesn’t want to be cruel. He doesn’t want to be a tyrant. He doesn’t want to be consumed by his bitterness and his hatred, like his father was, or like Uther was, until it spread out of him and into everybody else. He doesn’t want to be brutal, and he doesn’t want to be who he’s become. But it’s too late, isn’t it? The boy has become the beast, and there’s no saving him. 

So let the beast overtake him. Let Merlin die, and let the Dragon live, so be it. Because at least, then, when the Pendragons are taken care of, everyone else will be free.

But before them, they have to deal with Borden. Insolent, idiotic prat that he is.

Speaking of insolent, and idiotic…

It’s as Merlin lies awake that night, trying to stave off the nightmares that are bound to follow as soon as he shuts his eyes, that he hears the unmistakable rustle of a person leaving their bedroll. Slowly, quietly, he looks around, and his suspicions are, unsurprisingly, confirmed, as Borden sneaks out of his bedroll, and off into the night. Merlin barely resits the urge to say something snarky and give away the fact that he’s been awake all this time, and he barely resists getting up right there to demand where Borden is going. The urge to roll his eyes, however, is too great to not give in to.

He has a hunch, however, and it’s incredibly predictable of their travelling partner, but annoying nonetheless. So he waits until he’s sure he won’t be noticed, and he pulls himself, swiftly and silently, out of his bedroll. Part of him wants to wake Gwen, but he doesn’t wish to disturb her, either. Besides, he’ll never hear the end of it, if she finds out he stayed up.

For an accomplished thief, Merlin thinks, Borden is rather unobservant of his surroundings. Surely, Merlin is not as silent as he’d like to be, but not once does Borden turn around, at the snap of a twig or the rustle of leaves. Perhaps he’s merely too focused on entering the tomb.

Something else Iseldir had said, however, tugs at Merlin’s consciousness, and demands his attention.

_ Remember that the triskelion is not only a key, but a trap. _

But how? Would it perhaps trigger something, perhaps? Maybe open a pit, or…something. It’s on the warlock’s mind the entire time, even as he closes in, even as Borden places the triskelion to where it belongs, and begins to turn it. Then, and only then, does Merlin find his voice, shouting,

“Wait!”

But it’s too late, it seems. The key is in place, the door unlocked, and almost immediately, a foggy, misty substance fills the small corridor they’ve found themselves in. It makes Merlin’s eyes water, even from as far away as he is, and it has him coughing, and choking, and he knows that if he doesn’t do something soon, he’ll die, and, well, that really just can’t happen, can it? Quickly, he pulls his tunic over his mouth and nose, although the thick, black fabric only does so much for him. The spell he hisses is muffled by the wool, but effective all the same, as the mist disperses almost immediately. Merlin clears his throat, and blinks hard to wipe away the moisture that had gathered there.

Borden lay, unmoving, on the ground, and Merlin wishes he could feel something about it. He wishes he could be sad, or feel as if he’d failed the man somehow. Hell, he even wishes he could be happy about it, or adopt the notion that it serves him right. But he feels…nothing. He shrugs his shoulders, and steps over the lifeless thief and that’s the end of it, as far as he’s aware, as he continues down winding corridors.

So he’s two new interesting emotions about death he’d never felt before, and my, isn’t that strange? When it comes to Arthur and Morgana, he _ delights _ in the thought of their demise. When it comes to someone who’s neither ally nor foe, such as Borden, he doesn’t feel a damn thing. And what a far cry that is, from the boy he used to be. What a far cry from when he used to shed tears over strangers, when he used to be saddened over the even the death of a criminal, having thought it a waste of life.

Never mind that. Never mind death. Because there, on a pedestal in front of him in a vast chamber, is the egg. There, right in front of him, is the possibility of new life. This egg is precious, almost as precious as the life inside of it, and despite his dark and dismal musings, despite the fact that it hurts to even do it a little anymore, for he very seldom does, Merlin smiles. He reaches out, slowly, gingerly, hands shaking, and the moment his hands come into contact with the smooth surface— 

“Give it to me!”

So, not dead then. Borden’s voice has a horrible rasp to it, as if someone had reached into his throat and tried to rip out his vocal chords. Merlin can recall, a time when his voice sounded just as rough, just as scratchy, from either underuse or overuse.

He holds back a shudder.

“No.” he says, calmly.

“Give it to me, and I’ll grant you half share.”

“Dragons cannot be _ possessed!_” he turns then to face the man before him, and half-wants to blow him over where he stands. Borden continues to step forward, arms spread placatingly, but there’s a smirk on his face, one of pride, as if he believes he has Merlin right in the palm of his hand.

“Think of the power it will bring us, Merlin. You could call off this silly revolution, and just take Camelot for yourself.”

“I’m not interested in that.” 

He really isn’t. Why merely take over the kingdom, and become another dictator? Does Borden not understand the goal of the revolution? Does he not understand that there are people that deserve liberation?

“We could have the power and freedom to do as we wish, Merlin!”

“_Dragons cannot be used like that!” _Merlin roars, taking a step forward, defensively, between Borden and the egg. “They must be left unshackled…” he continues, calmer. “Free to roam the earth as they please.”

“This could be your chance, Merlin. Your chance to end this life of yours, sleeping on the cold, hard, ground, training idiots to fight. You could end your meaningless, _ pathetic _ life!”

** _Pathetic…_ **

_ No… _

** _Meaningless…_ **

_ No… _

** _Worthless!_ **

_ No! _

** _Nothing!_ **

“_NO! _ ” hands trembling, Merlin takes another step forward, and another, towards the idiotic, odious man before him. “Dragons are magical creatures, and they can be owned by _ no man!_ They are for the benefit of _ all_, Borden, and you don’t even deserve to _ look _ upon one in its majesty. I am _ not _worthless. It is not my life that is pitiable, Borden, it’s yours. You, are but a common thief. You pieced together the triskelion, big deal. But what are you, at the end of the day, after your stole the two pieces from the druids, and from Camelot?” Merlin is upon Borden now, and the former looks like he wants to be afraid. 

He should be. 

“And I, am the Last Dragonlord.” Merlin hisses. “And I am warning you. Leave, now. Before I lose my temper.”

All is still, for several moments. Until, stupidly, Borden moves in for the attack. It’s a shame, really. He might have had potential. But Merlin feels no remorse, even as he lodges his dagger into the man’s abdomen. 

“I did try to warn you.” he murmurs. “Do try to stay out of my way as you bleed out, yeah?”

He pushes the groaning, near-lifeless figure to the ground, and doesn’t spare another thought to him.

Instead, he turns back to the egg, and reaches for it. Slowly, gently, he pulls it off the pedestal. And immediately, the walls begin to crumble.

* * *

Gwen wakes up alone in the morning. Now, this is usually not cause for panic, when she and Merlin go off on their own for side-quests. However, usually, Merlin isn’t far. She can’t hear him, gods’ sakes, she can’t even feel his presence, and when she calls out for him, he doesn’t answer. And, she notes, Borden isn’t there either. She has a bad feeling about this one, and her gut feelings usually wind up being accurate. So, without thinking, she gathers up her pack and Merlin’s, and sprints in the direction of the tomb.

Halfway there, she sees it begin to crumble.

“No…’ she whispers, and for a terrifying moment, she can’t even move. She can only watch as the walls of the tomb begin to collapse in on themselves, before she sets off again, running faster and faster, because Merlin needs to survive, he needs to make it out okay. “Merlin!” She calls. “Merlin, where are you!?” she can’t see any sign of him, and _ no_, this can’t happen, she has to go in after him, she—

“Gwen!” it’s faint, but it’s him alright. Oh, gods. “Gwen, I’m alright! Stand back!” 

She does, all but tripping over herself in an effort to get out of the way, as large pieces of debris begin to fall from the top of the tomb, and Merlin himself crashes out of the entrance, mere moments before it’s completely caved in, and nobody can get in or out.

“Come on!” he says, grabbing her arm with his free hand and pulling her to safety. In the moment, she’s too focused on escaping to notice what’s tucked under his other arm, but it’s certainly there, and funnily enough, not as big as she’d expected. It’s still rather large, yes, but she expected it to be…well, larger. This fits just under Merlin’s arm, securely at that, and he can hold it and run at the same time. Fancy that.

It’s when they finally stop running that she gets a good look at it. It’s a funny sort of shape, not what she expected out of an egg, but then, what does she know? It is beautiful, though, and Gwen likens the colour of it to that of her warlock’s eyes. She can’t help staring at it, transfixed, and she almost flinches when she hears Merlin whisper,

“All of the riches in the world…all of the jewels…they don’t compare, Gwen.”

“It’s beautiful.” she agrees, and squeezes his arm. “How do you know when it’ll hatch?

“I don’t, unfortunately. I think Kilgharrah may know, so we’ll have to ask him, but…still, just having it, knowing the potential…”

Gwen doesn’t know, because she can’t know, how he feels in this moment, save that it must not be a dissimilar feeling from an expectant father. How wonderful, for his kin to continue to live, for him to be able to carry on the sacred duty of his ancestors. However, she can faintly understand his excitement, as she, too, buzzes with the energy she can feel coming off of him in wave upon wave.

Packing up their camp is simple enough, and they chat away as they do so. Every now and then, Merlin will reach over to the egg, and touch it ever so gently, as to make sure it’s real, that it’s still there, until he stows it safely away in his pack, and gingerly pulls it on over his shoulders. Their walk towards the waterfall is joyful, even if Gwen pointedly ignores the blood on Merlin’s dagger, and pointedly doesn’t ask what happened to Borden. She feels as if she has a general idea, and there’s no need to talk about it.

Neither of them mention, either, that they’ve seen no sign of the Pendragons. They were both waiting for it, and Merlin seemed like he was anticipating it. But…nothing. There’s no sign of them, anywhere. Not even their knights. Had they even realised they’d been stolen from? Or maybe they were…waiting to make a move? Gods, do they know something that Merlin and Gwen don’t?

Although tension certainly follows that thought every time it invades her mind, Gwen finds that she can’t fixate on it for very long, not with Merlin grinning at her like that, and not with the knowledge that there could, very soon, be a little dragonling romping about. What will that be like, she wonders? Will it be like a pet, or maybe a child? From what she’s seen of Kilgharrah and his intelligence, she’d hazard a guess as to say that it’d be the latter.

Strangely enough, they did make it back to camp with little to no incident, and without seeing the Pendragons, but Gwen has a feeling that they won’t stay out of sight for long. She doesn’t know when they’ll all see each other, but she knows they will. And she just hopes to the gods above that they’ll be prepared.

* * *

Surrounded by his closest friends, Merlin calls for Kilgharrah, strong and clear, and the egg rests upon a stump before them.

“Sexy.” Gwaine comments, as Merlin finishes his call. The warlock rolls his eyes, and delivers a playful shove to his friend, but doesn’t comment. Elyan merely looks at him like he’s grown three heads, though he’s definitely known of Merlin’s draconian abilities, he just hasn’t seen it in action before. Gwen, however, is beaming, shifting her weight from foot to foot and waiting for Kilgharrah’s arrival with as much impatience as Merlin himself is experiencing.

“Just wait.” Gwen says, grinning over at the other pair, who definitely have no clue what’s going on. Merlin and Gwen had said nothing, had merely pulled them away to somewhere secluded where they could also witness this for themselves.

It’s Gwaine that notices Kilgharrah first, and he looks very much like he wants to panic. In fact, he grips the handle of his sword with such force that his hand shakes, and his eyes betray the fear that he’s trying valiantly to hide. Gently, Merlin lays a hand on his shoulder, and offers a tiny smile.

“It’s alright. He’s a friend. He won’t harm you.”

Elyan audibly gulps, and stands with his back ramrod straight as Kilgharrah descends. The dragon lands with a great _ thump, _and it shakes the earth just a little. Merlin rolls his eyes, because Kilgharrah has that pleased look on his face, and he definitely landed harder than he needed to on purpose.

“So, Young Warlock. You expect me to be a spectacle for your friends now, is that it?”

“Hardly.” Merlin responds, shaking his head. “Sorry about him,” he says to Gwaine and Elyan. “Only he’s terribly rude.” Kilgharrah huffs in irritation at that, but says nothing. “Anyway, no, they’re here, and you’re here, because of this. For someone so old and wise, you know you’re not very observant?” with great satisfaction, Merlin points out the egg sitting upon the stump. And if Kilgharrah hadn’t been speechless before, he certainly is now. He stares at it for several long seconds, and even from the distance between his head and the ground, Merlin can swear he can see the emotions churning in the dragon’s eyes.

“I never thought I’d see the day…” he murmurs, and leans his great head down for a better look. “Truly, this is priceless, Merlin.”

“Is it still alive…?” Elyan questions. “I mean, it’s been ages, hasn’t it?”

“Dragons can live inside of an egg for thousands of years, and then some.” Kilgharrah answers.

“Well…how does it hatch, then?” Gwen asks, curiously, and her hand finds Merlin’s to give it a squeeze. This time, Kilgharrah definitely looks as if he’s smirking, and Merlin is sure he’s not the only one who sees it.

“That is up to Merlin.” he says. “It is the Dragonlords who hatched dragon’s eggs, and only a Dragonlord can do it now.”

“How, by sitting on it?” Gwaine questions, eyes narrowed as he looks between Merlin and the egg. “Sorry, mate, but you don’t seem the type to sit on an egg ‘til it hatches.”

“No.” Kilgharrah sighs, and fully shakes his head. “He must summon the dragon, by giving it a name.”

“Oh, yeah, that makes a lot more sense.” Gwaine murmurs, and shrugs.

“Shut up, Gwaine.” reply the other three, in unison.

“Shutting up.”

“Focus, Merlin. The name will come to you.” Gwen whispers to him, and lays her head on his shoulder. “I know it will.”

So Merlin focuses. He closes his eyes, and he focuses on the life inside the shell, and he focuses on what he needs to summon her. And, yes, there it is…the perfect name for the dragonling.

_ “Aithusa…” _

Nothing happens for several moments, and Merlin is almost afraid that it didn’t work. But then…then—

The shell begins to crack. It cracks, and cracks, and cracks some more, until— there! Her little head is popping out, and they can see her. And, gods, her wings, her tail…and here she is. Aithusa. A white dragonling, squawking in delight and smiling, gods, she looks like she’s smiling at them! And she’s…she’s…

“She’s beautiful.” Gwen breathes, eyes fixed on Aithusa and brimming with happy tears. “Oh, Merlin, she’s just beautiful!” 

Even Gwaine, for once, is speechless. He’s grinning, however, and kneeling down to look at her, offering his hand. She sniffs it curiously, and apparently, decides he’s good company, as she hops onto his hand and up his arm, much to his delight.

“And she’s appropriately named.” Kilgharrah says around a chuckle. “For you named her after the Light of the Sun. A white dragon is rare, Merlin, and always a good omen. No dragon birth is without meaning, and the birth of a white dragon bodes well for you, and for the future of Albion.”

And despite everything, despite the pain, and the fear, and the nightmares, and the way Merlin has changed as a person, decidedly for the worse, he believes it. Looking at Aithusa, he believes that everything will turn out in the end. Because here, in the midst of such an ugly and hateful time, here, in the beginning of a war, despite everything that happens around them, here is this beautiful creature, here is the Light of the Sun, and Gwaine is handing her over, and Merlin is cradling her in his arms, and when he looks into her eyes he sees such unconditional _ love _ there that he did nothing to deserve, he sees such a devotion that he did nothing to earn, and he knows, everything will be alright in the end. 

It’s a strange feeling, because Merlin can feel tears of joy run in rivulets down his cheek as he laughs. Hell, he’s even sobbing, because he’s so happy, a quiet sound though it may be even as it mixes with his laughter. It’s strange, because he’s never known love like this, he’s never known happiness like this, and he’s never seen such beauty. He feels not unlike a father who’s been handed his firstborn, and the joy and the love is so overwhelming that he feels he may burst.

“Welcome to the world, Aithusa.” he whispers to her. “I wish you every happiness.”

Part of him feels as if it was a little over the top for Gwen to lean in, and press a little kiss to Aithusa’s head, but the dragonling is satisfied anyhow, and she nestles into Merlin’s arms, and promptly falls asleep. It’s funny, because now they even _ look _ like the parents of a newborn, and Gwaine and Elyan look like devoted uncles there to witness the birth, but nobody cares. Nobody comments. Nobody dare disturb the moment.

For right now, even if only for a few minutes, everything is perfect. 

Aithusa, is perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YEET the next chapter is long as fuck already and i'm not even halfway done. and i mean, like, Long long. but it's all about the Cup of Life, so like. 'tis a major turning point, and after that, is all smooth sailing. sorta. kinda. it's plotted out, at least?
> 
> anyhow, i'll see y'all next week if Bio Lab doesn't kill me first :)


	9. Rise of the Once and Future King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The race for the Cup of Life is lost almost as soon as it begun. But Merlin knows what to do, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EEP this is a long one but it's one of my faves! i'm so excited to share this one, y'all don't even know uwu  
so i hope you enjoy!! 
> 
> TW: threats of rape/non-con, mentioned past rape/non-con, and rape/torture aftermath. issa doozy folks--

In the weeks that follow Aithusa’s birth, it’s quiet. Almost…too quiet, in Merlin’s opinion. He’d expected to see Arthur and Morgana again, for surely a dragon’s egg would’ve been a great treasure to them. He knows now, that it would’ve been useless to them, that only Merlin would’ve been able to summon Aithusa, but it still…nags at his mind. He feels almost as if they know something he doesn’t— but what? How could they possibly have the upper-hand, when no quests, no dangers, have presented themselves? Merlin knows, he _ knows _ it’s going to bother him, for days upon days on end. Weeks, even. Months. It’ll gnaw away at his mind until it drives him mad, because he has to know what they’re doing, right this second, because he knows something big is coming, something that will affect him and Gwen and Elyan and Gwaine as much as it affects Morgana and Morgause and Arthur, and Merlin has a horrible feeling about it. Even when he _ can _sleep, he’s plagued with nightmares, plagued with the images of Gwaine, lifeless and still as blood seeps from a wound and drips from his mouth, plagued with the images of Elyan, screaming such horrible screams of pain and anguish, and worst of all, the worst dream, the one that paralyses Merlin, the one that has him waking with a cry, the one that has him quaking with fear, is the one where he looks down, and in his arms, is Gwen, hardly recognisable. Gwen, not breathing, and not moving. And in that dream, he looks up, and Morgana is smiling that too-perfect smile at him, and she’s saying,

** _“Now look what you’ve done, Emrys. You’ve murdered the only woman who meant something to you. You’ve murdered the woman you love. Can’t you see? Can’t you see that you’re just as damaged as I? Can’t you see that your heart is just as black, just as vile as mine?”_ **

After so many times (Merlin had lost count) awakening in distress, Aithusa nuzzling her head against him in a vain attempt to calm and soothe, he’d given up on sleep, entirely. He’s exhausted, gods is he exhausted, but exhaustion is better than seeing the horrors his mind can produce. So it could be said that Merlin already has driven himself mad, wondering what the Pendragons are doing, worrying about how this revolution is going to go, terrified that any day now, all could be lost, and secretly, oh so secretly fearing that he is just as Dream-Morgana said he is. That his blackened heart and the ruined remnants of his soul will be the destruction of those around him, that one day he’ll snap, and he’ll be the end of everything and everyone.

He’d thought once that, should their endeavor succeed, should they usurp their oppressors, that Gwen should be installed on the throne. He thought that, but now he knows that. He knows it has to be her, because he _ can’t_. He is not the Once and Future King, just as Arthur isn’t. He’s too damaged, and he’s too dangerous to be a just and wise and caring ruler. One day…one day Merlin will cease to be, and it’ll be just like with Cornelius Sigan, only Merlin won’t win in the end— he’ll lose, and Someone Else will take over, and, gods, should that happen, Merlin only hopes that his friends will destroy the host that his body would become, because it would no longer be safe, for anyone. Merlin has entirely too much power, and, like a frightened, wounded dog (and my, how delighted Morgana would be at that particular description of himself), he poses too much of a risk.

Maybe they should put him down, before he even has a chance to turn into a savage. Maybe they should put him down, before everything the Pendragons did to him catches up to him, and he becomes just as vile and horrible as them.

He dare not speak this aloud, however. He dare not divulge his fears, not even to Gwen. She wouldn’t agree with him outright, no, but how could she not see what he sees? How is she not afraid of him, how was she never afraid of him at all? She either must not know of the true danger, or she has so much faith in him, that she’s willing to turn a blind eye. And he doesn’t deserve that. He doesn’t deserve her faith, and her loyalty. He doesn’t deserve it from Gwaine or Elyan either, and yet he has it. He has it, and he could easily take advantage of it.

But it’s because he loves them, that he doesn’t. It’s because he loves Gwen so fiercely, it’s because Gwaine is one of the best friends he’s ever had, it’s because he loves Elyan like he’d love a brother, that he pulls himself together, that he keeps himself in check. His power can be hard to control sometimes, but he _ has _ to, for them. So he’ll never be a king, because he can’t be. He can, however, remind himself of his place, remind himself why he’s doing this, and who he’s doing it for. If he sacrifices himself in the process, if he has to give his life so the people he loves are free, he’ll do it.

He’d give up everything, for them.

So as quickly as the fears come, as quickly as they grip his heart and leave him gasping for breath, they abate. All he need do is remind himself that, so long as he can control himself, and he’s been doing so well with it, all the people he loves will be safe. That’s all that matters.

That’s what he keeps telling himself, anyway.

It’s on one such morning, where he’s gone without sleep but funnily enough, feels perfectly fine, that the news comes to them. He’s not sure who sent a spy, or why they did, but he finds himself grateful, nonetheless, even as the young man in question seems panicked and shaken. Gwen, sitting with Merlin as both of them look upon the map between them, is the first to notice as the aforementioned spy comes running up to them.

“Is something wrong?” she asks, gently, and stands to rest her hands upon the boy’s shoulders, the gesture strangely maternal in a way. “You seem troubled, dear.”

“I just…I just came from Camelot.” the boy breathes. “And I have something to tell you.”

“Tell us, then.” Merlin urges, as gently as he can. “Here, have a seat. And a drink of water, you look exhausted.” the boy looks confused, as Gwen guides him to sit, but grateful, and he gulps down the water Merlin hands to him, and murmurs a quiet,

“Thank you…”

“What’s your name?” Gwen asks.

“Gilli.” Responds the boy.

“Alright, Gilli.” says Merlin. “What’s got you so troubled?”

“Well…”

The tale the boy spins is almost unbelievable, and Merlin would almost not believe him at all, if he didn’t look so frightened. If Gilli was lying, he wouldn’t be half as troubled by the information he shares as he is. This is no fool’s errand, and this is no trick. This is real.

The Pendragons are looking for the Cup of Life.

Gilli had been working in the castle for weeks, apparently not sent by anybody. He’d heard of the revolution, and he’d wanted to be useful somehow. And he was, indeed, useful. Somehow, he hadn’t been caught when he’d snuck into the council chambers, and somehow he hadn’t been caught in the duration of the meeting, and he had paused to say that it must’ve been the gods’ will that he heard the conversation between Arthur and Morgana. They knew where the Cup was, between Arthur’s research and Morgause’s tenacity and nearly lifelong search for the damn thing, they had tracked it down. Whether or not they had set out, Gilli wasn’t sure, but the minute everyone had cleared from the council chambers, he had run out, and he had kept running until he found Merlin and Gwen and the camp.

“That was very brave of you.” Gwen tells him. “Thank you. Go get some food, and some rest, please. You shall always be welcome here with us.”

“And you didn’t need to spy to prove your worth.” Merlin adds, amused, although the information he had only just received still nags at his mind. “You would have always been welcome. But we are grateful to you, and we cannot express our thanks enough.”

Gilli, though he looks ready to keel over, smiles hugely, thanks them, and quickly scampers off. Before he can disappear into the mass of faces, however, he turns back, and the troubled expression is back.

“One more thing.” he murmurs, and stares at his feet. He looks as if he wants to spit out what he’s thinking, but he doesn’t want to burden the pair with the information, and Merlin immediately knows it’s bad.

“What is it…?”

“The Cup? Is in the forest of Ascetir. You’ll have to travel to Arthur and Morgana’s lands.”

* * *

Gwen doesn’t know what the Cup of Life is, but going by the way Merlin visibly tenses when he learns that the Pendragons seek it, she knows it can’t be good. Even worse, however, is the fact that they have to venture into Pendragon territory to make sure the Cup doesn’t fall into the wrong hands. That, Gwen doesn’t need an explanation for. That, she knows, is a death sentence.

Merlin is deathly still for a long while, staring at the spot Gilli had occupied, long after the boy had left. His hair falls over his eyes, and she can’t see the expression in them, but his hand grips the handle of his sword so tight that it shakes.

“Merlin…?” she calls, gently trying to break him of his stupor. “Merlin, are you…?” she stops before she can finish her question. No, Merlin is not alright. Why would he be alright? He has a decision to make, one that seems very difficult.

Wordlessly, he stands, and with a flutter of his cloak, he walks briskly to his tent. Gwen says nothing, because what can she say? But she follows, falling into step just behind him. She stops, however, at the entrance, and watches as he flutters about, throwing items in his pack, brooding and silent.

“You’re going.” she observes.

“Of course I am.”

“Why?”

“Because I have to.”

“No, Merlin, you don’t.”

“Yes I do!”

“Why do you _ have _ to!? I understand the Fisher King. I understand Aithusa.” the dragonling in question perks up at the mention of her name, and ceases her frantic attempts to calm her Dragonlord down. “But what’s so special about this Cup?”

“Because they can abuse its power!” Merlin shouts back, and Gwen finds herself flinching. He rarely raises his voice at her. Taking a deep breath, he continues, calmer this time, “If you drink water from the Cup of Life, it can heal any injury. It could very well bring someone back from the dead, so long as the spirit hasn’t left the body yet. Now I thought…” he pauses, in the way he does when he’s trying to force a memory away. “I thought I had seen the last of it, a long time ago, when I was about fifteen. But evidently not.”

Gods, it’s so hard to remember that she knew him when he was fifteen, that they were fifteen at the same time. It seems like so far away. When Gwen’s feelings for Merlin were nothing but those of a harmless crush, when they kissed for the very first (and very probably the last) time, and Morgana was Gwen’s friend, and Merlin and Arthur were two peas in a cheeky pod. It’s strange that just mentioning his age can send a wave of vertigo over Gwen, how it can enforce a feeling of abject longing upon her. It’s only been five and a half years since she met the seemingly mischievous boy in the stocks, but it feels like a lifetime ago.

“So I’m going to find it. And I’m going to make sure it remains protected. It could be safer with the druids, it could not be. All I know is that once Arthur sets his mind to something, he won’t soon forget it. So I’m going.”

She understands that an object of such magical intensity needs to remain protected, needs to stay far out of Arthur and Morgana’s hands. But she has such a terrible, terrible feeling about all this. They’ve stayed far from the borders of the Pendragon territories, and have remained in Caerleon as much as they can. Although their camp is nomadic at its core, they have yet to travel into hostile territory. And although there have been no signs that Arthur and Morgana view their ragtag group of warriors and farmers as a threat, they haven’t wanted to test the waters, haven’t wanted to stupidly trot into danger. It was too risky. And now, with Cenred long dead and Essitir long under Pendragon rule, now Merlin wants to go there, now he wants to recover some Cup, just in case, Arthur is able to find it. Gwen understands. But she doesn’t like it. 

“I’m coming with you, then.” she says.

“No, Gwen—,”

“I’m not going to hear any arguments, Merlin!” she cries, and it’s a childish sort of gesture to stamp her foot on the ground, but she does anyway. “I have come with you to find a bloody useless trident in a land overrun with wyverns, I have come with you to recover a dragon’s egg, and I have stayed by your side all these years! I am _ not _ leaving your side now, just because you think it’ll be too dangerous to travel into enemy territory. Everywhere, is enemy territory, Merlin! You can’t make me stay here, just as much as I can’t stop you from going. I’m coming with you, and that’s final!”

He says nothing for a long time, and she hates that his face is unreadable. Usually, he’s never so cut off from her. Usually, she can see what he thinks, how he feels. It almost hurts, that he would close her off. But then, there’s a sigh, and the moment passes, and she can see the fear behind his eyes, and she knows that none of it is for himself. She knows that he’s afraid for her, that he cares for her wellbeing more than he cares for his own, and she loves him for it. Slowly, with purpose, she strides over to him, and gently lays a hand upon his face. His beard is scratchy and unkempt, and now that she’s close to him she can see the bags under his eyes.

His breath catches in his throat at the contact, and his eyes slip closed, and she can see, in this moment, just how exhausted he is, and she wants to make it go away but she can’t. It won’t go away until this is over. Slowly, his hand comes to rest upon hers, his exhale shaky. He looks incredibly small, in this moment, and incredibly sad.

“I’m frightened.” he whispers, and he leans down to press his forehead against hers. For some reason, it doesn’t make Gwen feel nervous, and it doesn’t have butterflies romping about in her stomach. It feels…normal. Even if it didn’t, this moment, Merlin’s fear…it wouldn’t be appropriate to dwell on girlish thoughts and feelings. “I’m frightened for you, and I’m frightened for me…” there’s an aborted sound from the back of his throat, one that Gwen can’t define, but it breaks her heart nonetheless. “I don’t know what any of this means. I don’t know why they want that Cup so bad, but it can’t be good. I just…I don’t want anything to…to happen to you. I don’t know what I’d do if…”

“I know.” Gwen whispers to him, because she does know. She feels the same way about him, after all. “I know…but we have a duty to our people, and to ourselves. You can do this, Merlin. _ We _can do this. We’ll get through it, just like we get through everything else, yeah? We’ll find that stupid bloody Cup before they do, and we’ll make sure it stays out of their hands. We’ll chuck it into a pond, if we have to. But everything is going to be okay, you hear me? I promise you, we will do this, or die trying.”

Merlin lets out a huff of a breath that sounds something like a chuckle, and the smallest of smiles pulls at his lips as he opens his eyes and looks into hers. 

“You know, I was very reassured until the ‘die trying’ bit.” he whispers, and Gwen can’t help the soft giggle that escapes her. “But you’re right. Of course, you’re right. You always are.”

“And don’t you forget it, either.” she says it in jest, and she’s relieved when another quiet chuckle escapes him.

“Gwen, I…” he trails off, and that fear is back, but it’s a funny sort of thing. It’s not the same as before, but a nervous look, like he doesn’t know how to say what he wants to, or like he’s afraid that perhaps Gwen won’t like what he has to say.

“Yes…? Merlin, what is it?”

“I…this is going to sound silly. But just in case this all goes wrong, if we do wind up dying on this quest, I want you to know that…I want you to know, that I—,”

But whatever he was going to say dies on his tongue as the entrance to the tent flaps open. Quickly, Gwen and Merlin pull away from each other as if burned, and turn to face Elyan, who stands before them with a cocked eyebrow.

“Am I interrupting something?”

“No, nothing.” Merlin says, immediately, and clears his throat. “Did you need something?”

“No, er, yeah, I came here to tell you that Gilli’s settlin’ in just fine, he’s still a little spooked but we think he’ll calm down in a little while, and everything else seems to be running smoothly today.” Elyan reports, but he narrows his eyes at the pair. “You two sure you’re alright?”

“Yes, we’re fine Elyan, thank you.” Gwen murmurs. 

“But there is one thing…” Merlin adds.

“Oh?”

“We’re going to need to put you and Gwaine in charge again.” 

“Why…?”

“We…” and Gwen wants to explain, she does, but she knows she can’t, at least not right now. “We’ll explain later, but we need you both to trust us to know what we’re doing.”

It’s silent for several seconds, and Elyan stares at them both. It’s a stare Gwen is accustomed to— that of an older brother trying to discern whether or not his sister’s secrets could be harmful to her or not. But it vanishes almost as quickly as it came about.

“You know we do. We always do.”

“Thank you.”

“I…don’t mean to worry you.” Merlin starts, and it looks as if he doesn’t want to say this what he’s about to say, but… “But should we…not make it back, you and Gwaine…we, both of us,” and that is true. Because whatever Merlin wants, is what Gwen wants. Whatever Merlin needs, is what Gwen needs. “We know that the two of you could…lead our people. Please, just…make sure they’re safe with Annis and Caerleon. They offered sanctuary in their very own home. Take the rebels there, and make sure they don’t leave until we come to fetch you. And Aithusa, please." again, the dragonling perks up, and happily trots over to Elyan, who picks her up with some difficulty.

But he stares at them again, for several seconds, his eyes wide, and his mouth ever so slightly agape. He seems as if he doesn’t quite know what to say, but he’s making an effort, his mouth opening and closing in rapid succession.

“Just how dangerous is this quest of yours…? he finally asks. “Guys, you’re scaring me…” 

“Elyan.” Gwen pleads. “Just…we can’t tell you right now. Just promise us.”

“I…I promise.”

That’s all they ask.

As Gwen goes to ready her pack, and Merlin makes sure Aithusa won't follow him, she swallows down her anxieties. It could be days before they reach the Forest of Ascetir. The Pendragons could very well have found the Cup by then, and they could very well go about doing just what they want to do with it, which is gods only know what. She could die on this quest. Merlin could die on this quest. Well, they could die on any quest, that much is true, but this…this is so much worse.

Because it’s not just Merlin’s death, is it? Gods, no, it’s so much more than that. They could take his magic away again. They could bind him and hobble him and drag him back to Camelot as a prize, they could put him back in that tower and put him through all of that again. Using him, abusing him, and this time…this time he might not survive. This time it could end so much worse. He was lucky to survive the last time. He was lucky to even escape the last time. Gwen isn’t so sure she’d be able to save him, and she knows that Arthur and Morgana would rather die than let him go, again. There’s so much riding on this quest. Gwen cares little for herself, very much for her rebels, but mostly, she cares for Merlin’s freedom.

And she’ll die before she lets them cage him again.

* * *

Their journey is near silent. Despite Gwen’s reassurances, Merlin can’t quell the fear, he can’t force away the thought that something terrible is going to happen. Conversation between the two is tense, and quiet. They barely stop to make camp. It gets worse, in fact, as they cross the border into Essitir. They feel as if a footsoldier or a knight on patrol is lurking about every corner, as if at any moment, someone will pop out and surprise them.

No surprises yet, but it’s best they keep their eyes peeled.

They don’t know precisely where they’re going. However, if Merlin can remember what the power of the Cup felt like, if he can remember how it feels to be near it, and if he can harness that feeling, then…then, it should be easy to find. The rest of it? Not so much. They still have to find a place where Arthur and Morgana and Morgause are sure to _ not _find it, they still have to get out of Essitir and as far away as possible.

They’re in the middle of pretending they’re not terrified, when there’s a sudden, and _ sharp _ tug on Merlin’s magic, that has him hissing in almost-pain. It’s a strange feeling, and it all but whipped his head in the direction his magic wanted him to go in. The cave he finds himself looking at is…foreboding but…inviting, all at the same time?

“I think it’s in there.” he murmurs. “I can feel the Cup’s power.”

Gwen says nothing, and silently follows him into the cave.

And what Merlin is not expecting, is to see a community of Druids, all turned towards him, as if they expected his arrival. He nearly flinches at the sight, but when he lays his eyes upon Iseldir, he can feel the tension leak out of his shoulders.

“You know why we’re here?” he prompts.

“Yes.” Iseldir replies. “You come for the Cup.”

“Only to guard it.” Merlin assures. “To be honest with you, I’m surprised we got here first…”

“We believe Arthur Pendragon is coming for it, as well.” Gwen adds. “But we’re not certain what he intends to do with it.”

If Iseldir ever let another expression pass over his face, Merlin knows he would be frowning. Instead, he studies the tension in the druid’s shoulders, and he knows that it’s even worse than he thinks.

“Is that so?”

“Yes. I…look, I thought it was destroyed, when I defeated Nimueh, on the Isle of the Blessed.”

“The Cup of Life cannot be destroyed, Emrys. Only emptied.”

“How’s that?”

Iseldir heaves a great sigh, and summons the pair over, deeper into the cave. As they follow, Iseldir tells them a story. A very troubling story.

And suddenly, Merlin knows exactly what Arthur intends to do with the Cup. Like the warlord so long ago, he can make an Immortal Army. All he needs, is their blood. Their blood, and Morgause’s knowledge and magic. So maybe the Pendragons do see the rebels as a threat. Maybe this was their plan all along. Maybe they knew how much Merlin has grown over the years, and maybe they want to see his face when he realises he cannot defeat _their_ Immortal Army. Maybe they just want to wipe out the pesky revolution once and for all, and silence any uprising before it can even take hold. Maybe Merlin and Gwen and Elyan and Gwaine, and Faber and Maria, and dear Gilli have all played into their hands. Maybe they’ve been cursed from the beginning.

Either way, they’re fucked. Unless Merlin hides this damned thing where it cannot be found.

“Where can I hide this where Arthur won’t find it?” Merlin whispers, but it echoes in the silence of the cave, as he looks down at the accursed object in his hand. It may not weigh more than a normal goblet, but because of the knowledge it holds, because of the power it radiates, it feels like it weighs a ton.

“I’m afraid that’d be rather useless, _ Mer_lin.”

Oh.

Oh gods. Gods, _ no_.

Slowly, Merlin turns around, and he doesn’t expect Arthur to be that _ close_, but he’s _ there_, barely two feet away, and Merlin could do anything. He could reach out with his magic, and kill him on the spot. He could grab the sword from his hip and run him through. But Arthur could do anything in this instant, and Morgause, just next to him, could do anything. This isn’t like that last day, when Merlin's mother died. They’re too close for comfort, and Arthur is more experienced than Merlin with swordplay, and Morgause has more than just raw talent when it comes to her magic. And Merlin can do nothing. Because it will mean the death of him, or the death of Gwen. So he stares at them, and his grip on the cup tightens, amd nobody says or does anything for several long moments. And Merlin can see Gwen’s hand twitch, he can see the firm set to her brow, and her lips are pressed in a thin line, and he hopes to the gods above that she doesn’t do anything, and he hopes to the gods above that someone will help them. The druids are nonviolent, but it doesn’t have to _ get _ violent. Merlin and Gwen just need to get _ away_.

However, in a flash of movement, Gwen is no longer at Merlin’s side, and for a moment, he fears she may have gone for the attack, which is not only unlike her, but very unwise. But— no, no it wasn’t her. It was _ Arthur_. Arthur who grabbed her, Arthur who holds her— in such a way that Merlin is intimately familiar with, and it makes his blood boil— and holds the edge of his sword against her neck, Arthur who smirks at Merlin like he has him right where he wants him because he probably _ does_. 

“Give us the Cup. Or she dies.”

Merlin glances around helplessly, at the floor, at the walls of the cave, at the druids, who all look as panicked as he feels, and even to Morgause, and briefly at the back of his mind he wonders where Morgana is but none of that matters, none of that matters _ at all _ , because Arthur has Gwen and he could kill her, and he _ will _ kill her unless Merlin gives him the Cup, and gods, it’s fucked, everything is fucked, and _ Arthur has Gwen _ and _ he’s not letting go_, and _ oh gods oh gods he’s going to kill her— _

“You heard the man.” Morgause says, in that smooth bite of hers. “Relinquish the Cup, and we will release her.”

“Don’t.” Gwen pleads. “Merlin, don’t! You know what they intend to do with it!”

“Do you now?” Morgause questions, attention turned to Gwen. “And what is it that we plan to do?”

And they’re glaring at each other, and Arthur is tightening his grip, and oh _ gods_, Merlin can swear he can see Arthur’s sword blade the skin, even just a little, and he swears he can see just a drop of blood seep from Gwen’s neck, but a drop is enough, a drop can be deadly, because just a small cut, just a scratch, can turn into a bigger wound, and a drop can turn into an ocean, and before Merlin knows it, Gwen’s neck could be sliced open, and her blood would stain the floor, and Merlin’s clothes, and his hands, and his eyesight, and it’ll be just like that night he killed Uther, with the never ending, all-consuming red. And Gwen and Morgause are still arguing back and forth and talking over each other, and Arthur is giving Merlin a warning, he’s drawing the sword in such a way, and the cut is going to become the gash, and Gwen is going to die and— 

“Here!” Merlin shouts, and holds the Cup out as an offering. “Take the damn thing. Just…just let her go. Please.” everything stops. The ringing in Merlin’s ears subsides with the voices that die down, but all he can see, all he can focus on, are those droplets of blood. All he can look at is Gwen’s neck, at the contrast of the blade against her skin, and he holds the Cup out for one of them to take, because he couldn’t stand it if Gwen was to die because of him. He’d never be able to forgive himself, if she died just because he didn’t give them the stupid Cup, and he knows, yes, he knows that they mean to do something awful, something unspeakable with it, but he can’t put that together in his mind. He can’t puzzle together that either way, the outcome is bad. He only knows that he doesn’t want Gwen to die. He only knows that he loves her, that he wants her, _ needs _ her by his side, so she’s more important than even the Cup of Life. So he offers it to them, because he has no other choice.

Morgause is the one to reach forward, almost hesitantly, but the moment it’s within her fingertips, she snatches it away, and looks upon it like a greedy man might look upon a sack of gold coins. 

“You have what you want.” Merlin says. “Now let her go.”

Again, all goes still. Arthur does not move. Morgause does not move. Their audience does not move.

“No, I don’t think I will.”

Before Merlin has time to digest what Arthur has said to him, the latter is throwing Gwen, sweet, daring, _ kind _ Gwen over his shoulder, despite her kicking and screaming, and walking away. And Merlin reacts on instinct; he surges forward, magic buzzing at the very edge of his skin, hand upon the handle of his sword, and he can save her, he _ can_, and he has to! So he surges forward, and he doesn’t know immediately what he’s going to do, but before he can do it, he can feel himself flying backwards, and he feels himself land _ hard _ on his back on the stone floor of the cave, and oh gods, _ oh gods_, it feels like when he threw himself off the tower, it feels _ exactly _ like that only worse, because this pain doesn’t ebb away into nothingness, this pain jarrs his entire sense of self and settles upon him, and he swears he’s broken his back again, and he cannot move, and he can’t do anything aside from groan and stare up at the ceiling as his vision swims, and he’d hit his head rather hard, hadn’t he?

It could’ve been mere seconds, or it could’ve been minutes or hours before he finally comes back to himself. Iseldir is helping him up off the ground, and he’s apologising, but why is he doing that? The faces around him are apologetic, but why? He hadn’t hit is head so hard that he blacked out had he?

And that’s when it comes back to him, all in a rush. He’d hit his head. He’d hit his head because Morgause had pushed him back with her magic. Morgause had pushed him back because she had the Cup, and Arthur had Gwen, and she _ still _ has the Cup, and Arthur _ still _ has Gwen, and _ ohgodsohgodsohgods— _

Merlin runs out of the cave, as fast as his legs will carry him, and he runs, and he runs, and he runs, because he has to catch up!

“GWEN!” 

And he keeps running, because he can see them in the distance, he can see Gwen draped over Arthur’s horse, and she’s not moving, but she’s just unconscious, right? She’s fine, right? Merlin can save her, right? If he just keeps running, he can save her. 

But they disappear out of view, and they leave Merlin behind, helpless.

“Gwen…”

* * *

She doesn’t remember when they knocked her about the head. But she knows that they must’ve, because when she comes to, she’s no longer in the forest, and there’s a stinging pain at the back of her skull. Stupid. How could she have been so _ stupid? _

She takes a moment, to gather in her surroundings. A cell is most definitely not surprising, but it’s a relief, to tell the truth. She could be in the Tower. Adding to her relief, she knows that Merlin isn’t there either. She’d seen him fly back, rather, she’d seen as he was pulled back by an invisible force, and while she worries if he’s okay, she knows that he’s picked himself up after worse. Better to be minorly injured than end up back here much against his will, overrun with vivid, horrible memories or, even worse, up in that dreadful Tower. All in all, she’s not pleased, no, but Gwen is relieved. Merlin is safe. 

She can die happy.

But strangely enough, death doesn’t seem to be on the agenda. Because, after what could’ve been minutes, or hours, of pacing back and forth in her cell, trying to figure out a way out, a way home, to Merlin, Gwen receives a visitor. A visitor who is positively _ delighted _ to see her.

Morgana reveals herself, at last. Gwen had been wondering where she’d been.

“Gwen!” she greets, voice oozing honey, “How wonderful to see you again!”

“Forgive me if I don’t return the sentiment.” Gwen bites back, and she can feel her lips curl into a sneer, and she wishes for a moment that she wasn’t separated from Morgana by the bars of her cell, because she’d _ love _ to wipe that self-righteous smirk off her face, or wrap her hands around that pale neck and _ squeeze_. Logically, she knows she’d, at most, land a single blow, and Morgana would push her away in the way she’s seen Merlin do to others so many times now, but gods, does she want to get her hands on the _ bitch _ in front of her. 

Words cannot describe her rage. Words cannot describe her _ hatred_.

But Morgana surprises her, yet again, by laughing lightly as if all of this is some kind of joke, as if Gwen is an errant child whose misbehavior is amusing, somehow.

“I apologise for my brother’s brutishness.” she says. “He really can be quite the barbarian sometimes. Poor thing _ still _hasn’t found a decent substitute to warm his bed, and I’m afraid he winds up treating our friends quite rudely. Of course, when he wanted to see if you would suffice, I refused to let him.”

“Friends.” Gwen scoffs, pointedly ignoring the bedwarming comment, pointedly ignoring the fact that, if not for Morgana stepping in, Gwen would have experienced the same thing as Merlin had, at the hands of Arthur. Why tell her that, anyway? No, actually, Gwen knows exactly why Morgana told her as such. Morgana had saved her from such a horrid potential, and Morgana can still let it happen, so Gwen ought to be grateful, right? Please. “You really think that we’re friends. After all this.”

“I know you and Merlin are close, Gwen.” Morgana says, and she steps closer. “And I know he must have said some things…and I know you must have heard some rumours. I can assure you that they’re not all true. Arthur may be a brute, but I am not.”

The lies are shameless. Merlin has said nothing about what Morgana did to him, and he never will, but Gwen can recognise the same fear behind his eyes when she’s mentioned, as he has when Arthur is mentioned. Maybe even more so. Because, Arthur he can look in the eye. Arthur, he can challenge, and put as much heat and as much defiance as he can into his endeavours. But from what Gwen has noticed, Merlin cowered before Morgana and though he won’t admit it, Gwen knows, oh, she _ knows_, that Merlin is terrified of Morgana, to his very core. Whatever she did with him left more than just physical scars. It burned itself into his mind, and won’t ever leave him, for as long as he lives.

“You’re not?” Gwen whispers, blood boiling. “Oh, that’s good to know. So when I went into your bloody_ torture chamber_, when I saw him as he was, half-starved and half-crazed, that wasn’t you? It wasn’t your magic, that tricked him into thinking that I was you in disguise, when I visited him? It wasn’t your magic that invaded his mind and left him all but a shell? Do you take me for a fool, Morgana? Do you really expect me to believe that you’re innocent in all this? I’m not stupid. Arthur? Is the stupid one. Arthur is too basic to take pleasure from anything other than coupling, but you? I see that look in your eye, Morgana. I know that the scars he bears are from _ you_. The lashes on his back, and the brand upon his chest, and everything else left behind from all those years ago are your doing. Don’t try to fool me. Don’t you dare lie to me. Because I can see it. I can see the sick delight you take in forcing answers out of people, in harming them just for fun. Don’t you dare try to tell me that Merlin is the liar. He is pure, and decent, and _ good_, and he cares about people, and you, Morgana, you are a _vile bitch! _” 

The final accusation comes out as a shriek, that echoes in the otherwise empty dungeon. For a while, they simply stare at each other. Gwen, with her breath harsh and her anger so hot that it brings tears to her eyes, tries to stand her ground, tries to look into Morgana’s eyes to find a hint of the girl she used to know, but there’s nothing. Cold, glittering emeralds stare back at her, and if not for the gentle, and infuriatingly calm, rise and fall of her chest as she breathes, Gwen would almost think her to be the living dead.

“My goodness, Guinevere.” she says, and there’s no emotion in her voice at all. “So quick to believe the worst from me. I had no idea you hated me so much.”

“Oh, My Lady.” Gwen replies, and she offers a sickly sweet smile. “You cannot begin to know how much I hate you.”

Again, silence, but Gwen can see Morgana’s resilience begin to crack. She can see bits of emotion poke through, just a hint of anger, but it’s something. It’s dangerous, but Gwen feels every bit of triumphant for it.

“He poisoned me, you know.” Morgana hisses. “Your precious Warlock isn’t as perfect as you think.”

“Nobody’s perfect.” Gwen counters, and she grabs the bars of the cell, grips them until her knuckles turn white. “But I know he poisoned you, because he was given no other choice.” And she does know. Many a time, she held him as he was haunted by the memory, haunted by the worst thing he’s ever done. “I know he told Morgause which poison he used because he wanted you to live. He very well could've let you die. You know you would’ve done the same, should the situations have been reversed. But if it had, you would have just _ watched _ as he stopped breathing, you would’ve _ listened _ for his heart to stop beating. And in that, lies the difference between you and him. He’s not perfect, no. But he’s a whole hell of a lot better than you are. Him poisoning you, does not justify you and your brother reducing him to slavery.”

She’d said too much, she’d poked too incessantly at the bear, and the cost for it is clear, as a slender arm reaches between the bars of the cell door, and sharp fingernails dig into Gwen’s cheek. She swears she can feel it break the skin. Morgana snarls at her, and it should be terrifying, but it’s not. It’s not, because Gwen knows that everything she said is true, otherwise, why would Morgana be so angry, if not hearing a truth she doesn’t want to believe?

“Don’t pretend you know exactly what that was like, to be poisoned by someone you thought to be your friend.” she hisses.

“I do know what it’s like.” Gwen snarls back, “Because you did. You poisoned us all, Morgana. Arthur’s mind, our friendship. You…were my best friend once. And then your brother did what he did to Merlin, and you stood back and you watched it happen. And if that wasn’t enough, you tortured him, because he poisoned you. It seems to me, he did the wrong thing for the right reason. I won’t pretend that poisoning you was the right thing to do, I won’t.” nails dig in further, and the sting pulls a hiss from Gwen’s teeth. “But he did what he had to do, for Camelot. All you’ve ever done is what you had to do for revenge, or to get people to yield to you. Violence begets violence, Morgana, and hatred begets hatred. Your people yield to you out of fear, and one day, Morgana, mark my words, one day there will be a new king. The king these people deserve. And if Merlin doesn’t remove your head and display it as a warning, until the crows peck out your eyes and leave you unrecognisable, then I swear to the gods above, that I will.”

As soon as the words leave Gwen’s mouth, a horrible shriek of rage falls from Morgana’s lips, and with a burst of energy— so similar to Merlin’s but entirely too brutal, entirely too oppressive to be his— Gwen finds herself at the other side of the cell, her back cracking at the force with which she hit the wall, and if she didn’t know any better, she’d think that her back was _ broken_. However, she can still stand, so she didn’t break her back, after all. Luckily, she didn’t hit her head, at least not too terribly hard.

As Gwen pulls herself to her feet, Morgana’s expression melts away. Instead of anger, there’s that cold nothingness once more. And then, slowly, a smirk creeps onto her face, and it’s ugly, and horrible.

“Have fun with Arthur then, Guinevere.” she says. “I’ll make sure to tell him just how defiant you are. He tends to like that.”

It’s not until Morgana fades from view, not until her footsteps diminish and disappear from earshot that Gwen allows herself to react. Slowly, shakily, she sits upon the floor and tries her best to not be sick.

“For Merlin.” she whispers to herself. “Remember that this is for Merlin.”

But in this moment, she can’t help but be terrified.

* * *

Merlin stumbles through the forest, dazed. He doesn’t know where to go, he doesn’t know where he is, and all he knows is that Gwen’s been captured. All he knows is that he needs to save her, but he can’t tell up from down, left from right, in from out. His vision swims, and the world spins around him, and he’s acutely aware that he’s exhausted. He’s also vaguely aware that he needs to take cover, and soon, and think up a plan. He needs to save Gwen as soon as possible, but if he’s caught in this current state of his, they’re both doomed.

But that’s alright, isn’t it? If they both die, then they can meet again in Avalon, right? And they can reunite with Merlin’s mother, and Gwen’s father, and Gaius, and Leon, and…and everything will be alright, because Gwaine and Elyan can carry on their work.

But no. No! No, they have to make it out alive, and Merlin has to save her. It’s just fine if he gives up his life. So long as Gwen lives…

So he continues his half-stumble, half-run, trying to find her, trying to find anyone, and he doesn’t know where he’s going, but he can figure it out, he has to figure it out, before he—

He crashes right into someone, cutting off all his thought processes momentarily.

In the ensuing panic, he doesn’t register who it is, only that they all but came out of nowhere, and he can’t reach his sword in time before that Someone grabs his arms, and he reaches blindly for his magic, but it won’t work, why won’t it work, he _ needs _ it, why won’t it work!?

“Easy, Merls, easy…It’s just me. It’s your old friend Gwaine.”

Gwaine…?

“Alright, Merlin, relax. It’s just us.”

And Elyan. Oh _ gods_, Elyan, what does Merlin say to Elyan?

But what are Gwaine and Elyan doing here? No matter. No matter! They can help. Yes, they can help! But…

“What are you two doing here…? I thought you were escorting the rebels to Caerleon. And...and Aithusa, she..."

“We put Maria and Faber in charge of that, and Aithusa is fine.” Elyan reports. “We were worried about you and Gwen, so we followed you.”

Gwen.

Oh, gods, _ Gwen_.

“Merlin…?” Elyan prompts, and why is the earth swaying in such a way?

Oh. Perhaps that’s just him.

“She’s gone.”

“Who’s gone, mate?” Gwaine asks, gently. “Merls, where’s Gwen?”

Too many questions that all have the same answer.

“Gwen. She’s gone.” my, does Merlin’s voice sound funny, even to his own ears. Drunken, almost. Slurred. “They took her.”

The back of his head itches, and in his daze, as he tries to get his eyes to focus on one thing, tries to get his mind to focus on one coherent thought, he reaches back to rub at the spot. 

“Who took her, Merlin?”

“Arthur— an-and Morgause, they just…they _ took _ her and I couldn’t _ do _ anything. I _ tried _— I…I tried. Gods, Elyan, I’m so sorry.” 

He sways again, and this time, he doesn’t think he can catch himself, and surely, he would have fallen if Gwaine wasn’t there to catch him, but it doesn’t matter, because he feels like he’s going to be ill, and he can feel the bile crawl its way up his throat, and he’s so _ dizzy _ and his head hurts, and why won’t it stop itching, and why is it so sticky when he reaches up to scratch it?

Oh. That would be because he’s bleeding. The contrast of the blood against the pale skin of his hand is nauseating, and he has to look away.

“No, no, don’t be sorry.” Elyan murmurs to him, as soothingly as he’s able, which isn’t very, but he makes a good effort. “You did everything you could, I know you did. You always do.”

“You wouldn’t let anything happen to her if it wasn’t beyond your control.” Gwaine tells him. “Everyone knows that. Come on, Merlin. Sit down. Just sit down for a moment.”

He doesn’t want to sit down, he wants to save Gwen, he _ has _to save her, he has to go and get her, or something very bad is going to happen. But he’s sitting down anyway, and someone is shoving a waterskin into his hands, and despite himself he’s taking long, greedy gulps of water and he can’t stop shaking, but he needs to stop shaking, and he needs to get a hold of himself, because he needs to save Gwen, he needs to save her before any atrocities come her way, as they inevitably will if she stays too long.

“Tell us what happened.” Elyan urges. “Take a deep breath, and start from the beginning. Try not to panic, yeah? Just detach yourself, and we can figure out where to go from there.”

Right. Right! Detach himself. He can do that. He’s good at that! He’s good at breathing, too. So he lets his mind go blank. He takes a deep breath in, and lets it out. In, and out. Start from the beginning.

He tells them everything he can. About the Cup, about Morgause’s plans with it, about how Merlin had gone to protect it but had failed so epically, losing the Cup, and losing Gwen in the process. He tells them everything, in smooth monotone, and he doesn’t look at them as he does, because if he looks at them, then the facade crumbles. If he looks at them, he’ll lose it, and he can’t afford to do that right now. Calm. Detached. Precise. Even if his head pounds and the world spins and he still feels as if he may vomit. 

Silence falls over the trio for a long while, after Merlin finishes speaking. Exhausted, from his lack of sleep and his, apparently rather serious, bump on the head, he leans against Gwaine, and notes that breathing seems a laborious task, though he has no idea why. But his breathing, laboured though it may be, is something he can focus on, a repetition to fixate on that aids him in clearing his mind. He needs to sleep, he knows that much, and he’s confident that he pushed it long enough that maybe, for once, his nightmares won’t haunt him. Maybe, for once, his energy and his magic will be focused on healing his head, or whatever injury it is that’s causing such a terrible headache.

But he knows that he can’t sleep, at least not right now, that sleeping out in the open, in a place where his vulnerability is sure to get, not only him killed, but Elyan and Gwaine as well, is a disaster waiting to strike. Yet Gwaine’s hand on his shoulder is a warm, and comforting presence, and in the near-silence of the forest— save for the small birds and animals, whose lives are unaffected by the abduction of Gwen, as Merlin is no doubt affected— his eyes begin to slip closed. He can hear Elyan urging him to keep them open, he can feel Gwaine nudging him awake, but Elyan’s voice is soft, and comforting, far away, and Gwaine’s touch is still gentle, and despite the rousing, Merlin can still feel himself begin to fade from consciousness.

So he barely feels it when he’s pulled to his feet. He barely feels it when he’s half-carried, half-dragged out of sight, and he barely feels it when he’s laid down upon cold, hard ground. But neither the temperature nor the texture of the ground mean anything to him. He blinks bleary eyes up at <strike>his brothers</strike> his friends once, twice, and then the world goes black.

* * *

Despite Morgana’s threat, Gwen did not see Arthur that evening, nor had she seen him the following morning, and she hadn’t even seen him in the afternoon. In fact, evening is approaching again, and she has yet to see the Mad King himself. But every sudden noise has her flinching, every creak, and every man’s voice she hears has her heart pounding. She’s nowhere to escape from here, should he come into her cage, and she’s well aware of that, just as she’s well aware that, although she knows how to fight, although she’s damn good at it, Arthur could easily overpower her. He’s much taller, he’s much larger, and he’s been fighting much longer. He may not be bright, in fact he’s about as smart as a donkey, but once he sets his sights on something he wants, he’ll get it. He’d wanted her before, she knows as much. And she remembers with a shudder how, in the privacy of empty corridors, or whenever they had a moment alone, he would kiss so fiercely, he would grip her waist so tightly in his hands that sometimes, every now and then, they would bruise.

At the time, it excited her. At the time, she’d bite her lip and she’d press into her bruised flesh and she would wonder, secretly and with no small amount of shame, if he fucked like he kissed. At the time, she’d wanted him, too. But now, now that she thinks back on it, she wonders…if she hadn’t wanted it just as much as he had, if she hadn’t wanted him as he’d wanted her…would it have been different? Did he, perhaps, lose interest because she showed it back? She wonders, is he merely a hunter to his very core? Does he merely want a challenge? And would he, now, desire her all the more for her not wanting him, for her absolute _ repulsion _ for his entire being? If she puts up a fight, would he enjoy that? Maybe he has been this way all along, this brute of a man. Maybe all it took was for Morgana to discover that he coveted control, that he coveted power over other people, just as much as she did. Maybe all it took, was Morgana letting him know that it was okay, to be that way, that he deserved everything he wanted, because he was born at such a high status.

Or maybe they came to the decision together. Maybe they realised, through their talks in the year since she first came back after her disappearance, that they both felt they deserved the world, that they both knew they could take it. Perhaps it was then that they formed their dark alliance, long before Merlin could see it coming, long before Gwen could see it coming. Perhaps they were all doomed from the start, then.

Heavy footsteps approaching her cell break Gwen out of her thoughts, and she tenses once more, ready to meet cerulean eyes that she once so adored, ready to fight for her very life, should she need to, and ready to fight for her virtue. Because, the gods and probably everyone else know by now, that Gwen knows exactly who she wants to give it to, she knows who deserves the most precious gift she has to offer, and it isn’t Arthur. Far from it.

But it isn’t eyes of blue and a golden head that greets her. Rather, kind amber irises and long, dark hair. Elric smiles tightly at her, like he wants to be happy to see her, but given the circumstances, well…

“Elric!” Gwen greets, and though she, too, understands the circumstances all too well, she can’t help but smile at him as a guard fits a key into the door of the cell and allows him entrance. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve been instructed to take a look at your injuries.” he says, far too loud to be normal, and Gwen notes the way he glances around nervously. Someone must be listening. The scoff Gwen lets out is real.

“Yeah, I’m sure you have.” she sighs, and shakes her head. Honestly, the nerve of those two.

“Are you…_ are _you injured?” Elric asks, and it’s gentle, this time, as the guard leaves them be. She considers for a moment, and shrugs.

“I was hit over the head when I was brought here. And I hit the wall pretty hard yesterday.” she can’t help the bitter edge her voice takes on. Though her head doesn’t quite bother her, save for a minor headache, her back is still sore. It probably will be, for days.

“I’ll see to those, then.” again, Elric had spoken louder, to appease their unseen audience, before he instructs her to turn around so he can examine her. He continues, in a whisper, “How is your health, otherwise?”

“Just fine.” Gwen whispers back. “Merlin is also doing well, if you were wondering. As well as he can be, anyway.” though silent, she can feel his sigh of relief.

“I’m glad. Now…Gwen, listen carefully.” he lowers his voice even more, to the point where she can barely hear him. “I’m going to try and get you out of here. Hopefully by tonight, do you understand?”

The words send a jolt of hope through her, and she nods, not trusting herself to speak.

“I’ll get a key to you, somehow. Meet me in your old home, okay? We’ll go from there.”

Again, she nods. Though she’s not confident in an escape from her old house, because the last one went only so well, she still knows how to get there and not be noticed. And, this time, she won’t be slowed down by a man who’s still healing from such drastic wounds. And, hopefully, this time, she won’t lose another friend.

Elric gives her a tonic, and leaves. She paces her cell for hours that evening, waiting for the key, waiting for the other shoe to drop with Arthur, all the while entirely certain that the tension would cause her to burst before either of those things could happen. However, shortly before her food for the evening is delivered, she hears a gentle clink from just above her. And when she looks up, the first thing she sees is, thank gods, the key to her cell tied to a piece of string, slowly making its way down to where she can grab it. She does so quickly, not wanting Elric to linger too much for fear that he’ll be caught. She doesn’t thank him with words, as she doesn’t want to call attention to herself or him, but her gratitude is known, she’s sure of it.

She waits for gods only know how long. She waits, and she waits, and she waits. She daren't touch the food she was given, for her stomach is too tied up in knots to force anything down. She paces, and she’s terrified that at any moment, Arthur will come marching down to her, or Morgana, or Morgause, for surely someone noticed the key missing. But perhaps they’re all too focused on something else. Focused on what, she doesn’t know. She doesn’t want to know.

But when the guard falls asleep, she knows she has her chance. She fits the key into the lock, slowly, carefully, hyper aware of every sound she makes, cringing every time one echoes through the dungeons. But the guard doesn’t wake. The door creaks open, and the guard doesn’t wake. She creeps her way past him, and the guard doesn’t wake.

But something about this seems…off. She’s making her way through corridors, and she’s trying to be as quiet as she can, but the palace seems so…empty. She can’t put her finger on it, but it feels so…wrong. Hollow, almost. Her short journey is uninterrupted, although she fears that just around every corner, someone will catch her, someone will spot her absence. But she makes it to her old home with no trouble, and not even the warning bells have sounded yet. The absence of trouble, is troubling. The ease of her escape worries her. Did the regency know what Gwen and Elric had planned? Would they be waiting for her in her old home, sitting at the table as if it were normal? Would they be waiting by the edge of the forest?

But the only person that greets her as she enters the cottage, is Elric, his lips once again pressed together, forehead creased. He’s awfully pale, Gwen notices, but she doesn’t comment.

“I trust you had no trouble.” he comments wryly. Gwen narrows her eyes, and takes a cautious step back from him. How did he…? He seems to notice her wariness, and holds his hands up, features softening. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to alarm you. But there’s a reason I picked tonight. Come, I’ll explain on the way.”

He brazenly steps out of the cottage, and leaves the door wide open. Almost as an afterthought, Gwen pockets the key, and follows him. The streets do seem strangely empty. No guards, no soldiers. And Gwen wonders what the hell is going on.

“You are aware that the Pendragons possess the Cup of Life?” Elric questions.

“I…yes. Merlin and I went to protect it, but…”

“Mm. Then you are aware of what they intend to do with the Cup.”

“Yes. I am.”

Oh…

_ Oh! _

Oh, no.

“Oh gods…”

“That’s what they’re doing, right now.” Elric confirms. The forest is mere paces away. They approach it at a leisurely stroll. It’s not as if they’re in danger of getting caught. “That’s why the streets are so empty. The citizens are frightened, and all the footsoldiers are being granted immortality.”

Gwen knows what this means.

“We’re doomed!” she moans, disparately. “We’re done for! We can’t defeat an Immortal Army! The rebels…oh _ gods_…”

Elric nods, expression still grim.

“Do you know where Merlin is?” he asks.

“I…there’s a cave, nearby. It’s where we hid for a while, when he was still healing. If he’s anywhere, it’s probably there.”

Unless he’d gone back without her, for his own safety, which is her hope. But she knows him. He would’ve stayed, and started to come up with a plan.

“Lead the way.”

So she does. Silently, she leads the physician through the forest, and she knows, even without looking at herself, that her expression is as grim as his. She can feel that weight, the same weight she felt when Leon died, settle back upon her. Her legs are heavy, almost impossible to pick up off the ground and move forward, but somehow, she does it. But everything she does is automatic, and the ringing in her ears refuses to subside. Because they’ve lost, haven’t they? An immortal army will not only wipe out her rebels, but they’ll take the rest of the kingdoms for the Pendragons. It was all for nothing. Gwen feels as if she should cry, or something, but the tears won’t come. The only thing she feels, is when the cave comes into view, and even then, the feeling isn’t profound. It’s just relief, that she can sit down and rest for a while. She just wants to sleep, now. Sleep off the failure for the next one thousand years, or so. But even then, when she wakes up, the army would still be waiting for her, because it’s _ immortal_.

When figure jumps out at her, however, and she realises belatedly that her weapon had been taken away, and she hadn’t looked for it in her haste to escape. Elric pulls her behind him, and it’s only when the shouts have diminished that she realises—

“It’s only Gwaine.”

And the relief floods her, only to diminish again when she remembers why she’s there in the first place. It disappears completely when she realises, this could be the end of dear Gwaine, especially so close to Camelot. And the end of her brother, whom she lays her eyes upon when he exits the cave to see what the commotion was.

“What are you two doing here?” she asks, tiredly.

“Maria and Faber lead the rebels to Caerleon, and we followed you and Merlin.” Elyan explains. “Merlin told us you’d been captured. How did you escape?”

“Where’s Merlin?” she asks, instead of answering his question. Because his question is loaded, and he doesn’t even realise it.

“Inside.” Gwaine says, nodding his head. “He’s been hurt.”

Panic grips Gwen once more, and she hurries inside to check on her Warlock. He doesn’t look good, at all. But he’s made it through worse, she supposes. Much worse.

“What happened?” she asks, taking his hand as she sits beside him. She’s glad to see, however, that his features aren’t contorted in pain, and his handsome face remains smooth and unbothered. She’s glad he has that, for now. She almost wishes he won’t wake up, so she won’t have to tell him what Elric told her.

“He hit his head awfully hard, I’m guessing.” Elyan says. “Was in a right state when we found him.”

Right. She’d seen that. He’d pull through just fine, as he always did. Her worry for him abates, for now.

“Let me check on him.” Elric says, but before he can get much closer, Elyan and Gwaine are blocking the way. Gwen can appreciate their desire to protect their friend, however…

“He’s with me.” she reports. “He’s a physician.”

Slowly, reluctantly, they part, and allow Elric passage. It’s silent as he examines the sleeping Warlock, silent and tense. Gwen refuses to say a word about what she knows until Merlin is awake, and she knows Elric is much the same. Even as he finishes his examination, and reports that Merlin will, in fact, be alright, he says so quietly, and although he’s soft spoken, his words echo throughout the otherwise silent cave.

Elyan and Gwaine goad her endlessly, almost routinely. It’s almost amusing. But she answers the same way each time:

“Later. I’ll tell you later.”

And she stares at Merlin’s peaceful face, and she strokes his hand, and she wonders how in the world she’s going to tell him that everything they’ve built together is soon to crumble to the ground. Even if the rebels are hiding, it won’t be long until the army marches on Caerleon and slaughters everyone in their path, knowingly or not. 

And, gods, she’s just…tired.

So when it becomes clear that Merlin is more than likely going to sleep through the night, she curls up beside him, and cries herself to sleep.

* * *

The first thing he’s aware of, is a warm presence by his side. It’s nice, he decides, and comforting. Even more comforting than leaning against Gwaine had been. He’s also aware that it’s still nighttime, or at least very early morning. So he keeps his eyes closed, and he pulls whatever it is closer to him, and he’s content to go back to sleep. However…as his mind begins to catch up with him, he realises he can feel someone’s warm breath on his neck, and someone’s hair tickling his jaw. The gentle weight on his chest is a hand, similar to the leg draped over his waist, and the warmth pressed into his side is, in fact, another human being. He blinks his eyes open, confusedly, looking to see just who cuddled up to him in the night, for surely the body is entirely too feminine to be Gwaine, or Elyan, looking to see who he, apparently, held through the night.

For a moment, he doesn’t believe his own eyes. He’d _ seen _ her taken, and he knew that escape was near-impossible. But it really is Gwen, huddled with him in a way similar to that first night they spent as fugitives, and in his relief at seeing her alive and well, he can’t even bring himself to be embarrassed about their shared proximity, and he barely notices the crease to her brow, the frown upon her face as she sleeps. In fact, in his relief, he forgets himself, and gently as he can, brushes a wayward curl from her face, cups a cheek in his hand, because this needs to be real. He’s so afraid that he’s dreaming, but he can _ feel _ her warmth underneath his palm, and it calms him.

At his touch, she begins to stir from her slumber, a sleepy sigh escaping her mouth as the crease on her brow deepens momentarily.

“Gwen?” he whispers, voice still thick with sleep. At the sound of his voice, she blinks her eyes open, and immediately, Merlin is captivated by their earthy hues. Her frown disappears, for the moment, and she smiles gently, instead.

“Good morning.” she greets. “Or evening, rather.”

(He really, really wants to kiss her, in this moment.

He refrains.)

“How did you…? I mean…”

He remembers, however fragmented, that he’d been trying to come up with a way to rescue her from wherever she was being kept. His plans were disjointed and feverishly dreamt up, but they were plans nonetheless. Suddenly, he wonders how long he’s been out. Again, he recalls very little about his waking moments, and surely they were few and far between.

“Elric helped me.” she whispers back, and sits up.

(Silently, Merlin mourns the loss of her warmth.)

He follows her, and looks around to see that, yes, Elric is there. He seems to have aged quite a bit in only a couple short years, and it shows, even as he sleeps.

“I’ll have to thank him at a more reasonable hour.” he says, and grins. But there’s a far off look in Gwen’s eye, as she pulls her knees to her chest, and it’s a look Merlin can recognise. Because he, too, wears it often.

He doesn’t like it. It frightens him.

“Gwen…? What is it, love? What’s wrong?”

She seems reluctant to tell him. Almost nervously, her eyes flit about to take in the other three, sleeping figures, almost as if to ensure that they’re still breathing, to ensure that they’re still there, and that nothing happened to them while she slept.

“Remember what Iseldir told us? About the Immortal Army? After their blood was collected in the Cup?”

“Yeah…”

“That’s why escape for Elric and I was so easy, last night.” she reports, quietly. “That’s what they were doing.” she takes a deep, shuddering breath, and looks him in the eye. “They have their own army of men who won’t die.”

It’s hardly surprising. In fact, the only thing that surprises him is that it took them so long to do the ritual. He’d thought they’d have done it the moment they got home, but then, they needed to gather their soldiers all in one place. Not that they’d need a vast infantry, anyhow.

However, he understands the implication. He understands that the consequences of his failures have already caught up with them, that his people, hidden away in Caerleon and blissfully unaware, are cattle waiting for slaughter, unless Merlin finds a way to empty the Cup and, preferably, escape with his life. In the moment, the task seems insurmountable. It seems like millions and millions of miles away, impossible and out of reach for all of them, even Merlin. Impossible for even Emrys the Mighty to conquer. And that, is not a road he should go down. That is a memory not worth dwelling on. He cannot, and he will not, recall that hopelessness, and he cannot, and he will not, allow Gwen to fall victim to the same feeling.

It’s a strange turn of the tables for them, he decides. Because as the silence continues, as he meets her eyes, and finds that hers are just as forlorn and empty as his have been, he knows that he needs to do for her what she has always done for him.

“This is not the end.” he tells her, and in the moment, he _ believes _it. The firmness of his voice is convincing even to him. “You heard Iseldir speak of the Immortal Army, yes, but you also heard him tell us that the Cup can be emptied, yes? It’s the only way the last army was defeated. I know it's risky, and I wouldn’t ask you to accompany me, but…” a gentle smile in her direction. “I know you’ll hear no arguments. You never do.” her smile is small, but it’s a victory nonetheless. “We don’t have to know how we have to do it, not right now. We have a place to hide, for now, and sort out our thoughts for a while.”

“But we need to act fast. Caerleon isn’t that far away.”

“True.” Merlin concedes. “But we don’t need an idea right this very second.” he leans in, presses a gentle kiss to the top of her head. “Go back to sleep, Love.” he urges. “Trust me when I say, it’s going to be alright. It has to be.”

“How do you know?”

He stops to consider that, for a moment.

Then, he smiles.

“Because. We’re us.”

And the smile that spreads slowly across her face, is breathtaking.

He waits up, gently runs a hand through her hair until her breathing evens out, until he’s certain that she’s asleep. Even then, he sits up, and watches the gentle rise and fall of her chest, longs to smooth the crease from her brow when it reappears. She’s worried, and he knows why, because he is, too. She’s been worried, he knows, but she had hope, and he wants, more than anything, to give that back to her. Because she _ is _ hope. She’s the very symbol of it, for everyone they know, for everyone that loves her, and there’s a _ lot_. Gwen is the one that never gives up. Gwen is the one that keeps pushing forward, that pulls everyone along with, when all hope seems lost.

And Merlin cannot wait for the day that Gwen will no longer have to worry. He longs for the day that she can finally be _ happy, _consistently so. The day that she no longer has to sleep on the hard ground, and that she doesn’t have to kill herself just to make sure everyone else will survive. Above all else, Merlin needs to give her that.

So he stays up. He paces, and he thinks, and he tries to come up with a plan, but how does he get past an army of immortal soldiers? How does he get to the Cup, and empty it? How does he do this all, while at the same time, making sure his friends are safe from harm? It’s there, right at the forefront of his mind, and yet he can’t grasp it. The answer slips through his fingers every time, and he barely holds back a groan of frustration.

He looks through his things, for answers. It’s not much, just what he has in his pack, and there’s no possible way for him to find what he’s looking for in bundles of clothes and leftover crumbs of food, even if he _ did _know what he needed to find, but he does it anyway. Perhaps just for something to do with his hands. However, near the bottom, he feels something…strange. Not strange, as it were, but…it seems to attract his hand, softly calling out to his magic. Confused, brow furrowed, he pulls out an object he had long forgotten about: the Water of Avalon, from the Fisher King.

But he’d never figured it out before. It was just plain old water. He incanted at it and charmed it and stared at it all day long, and never yielded any results, and aside from the brief flicker of power he’d felt as he reached his hand near the bottom of his pack, it remains unremarkable. He can stare at it all night, and he’s not certain it will give him any answers. But he does keep it out, he does stare into its clear depths until his eyes cross, because he doesn’t know what else to do.

In frustration, gods only know how much later, he sets it down next to him, and doesn’t notice it wobble precariously, and doesn’t notice it fall, not until he hears the unmistakable shatter of glass. Eyes wide, he looks down to the remnants of splintered bits of wood and sharp pieces of glass, and mutters,

“Shit!”

But there’s no way he can mend it, not really. He watches, slightly transfixed, as the water dribbles down and pools in a dip in the rocky floor of the cave. There goes that, then. He’s about to look away, about to try and figure something else out, when the tiny puddle begins to shimmer, and a silent call beckons him closer, and closer still. There’s something reflected there, but…

Oh, gods.

He can’t help the gentle, if slightly sad smile that spreads across his face.

“Freya…?”

Freya grins up at him. For someone who’s been dead for years, she looks pretty good.

“I’ve missed you.”

“I don’t—,” he doesn’t understand. But she’s cutting him off, anyway.

“We don’t have long, Merlin.” she says, suddenly serious. But—

“Is it really you…?”

Her smile is back, for what it’s worth. It’s soft, and gentle, just as she had been. She nods.

“I swore to myself that I would repay your kindness one day. Now is that time.”

“I don’t understand…” and he feels like he should, but he doesn’t. Seeing her again, is both a blessing, and something that causes him great pain, and, for some reason, shame? 

“There is but one weapon that can slay that which is already dead.” she reports, and Merlin knows immediately what she’s talking about, but he can’t put together just why that’s important, and he’s so incredibly confused, so incredibly overwhelmed in the moment.

“Excalibur.” he answers. “Forged in a dragon’s breath…”

“It lies at the bottom of the Lake of Avalon, where you hid it.” 

“But…” he still doesn’t understand. “Their army isn’t dead, they’re all very much alive.”

“Anyone who toys with the Cup pays a terrible price.” Freya reports, solemn. “When they entered their pact, they became the living dead.”

Makes…sense? No, actually, it does make sense.

“You must come to the Lake, Merlin, and I will give the sword to you. In your hands, it has the power to save Albion.”

He doesn’t know what to say, aside from, 

“Thank you…” quiet, and hoarse.

“No…” and the sweetness of her smile is back, and is Merlin crying? He’s not, apparently, but he can feel the tears forming. “It’s given me the chance to see you again.”

And she’s fading, before he can respond, fading from view and, very probably, his life altogether. She’d said she’d give the sword to him, but he’s not sure what that entails. He will not be able to speak with her again, he knows as much, and he feels as much. But that’s okay, isn’t it? That’s perfectly alright. It, oddly enough, gave him the closure he felt like he didn’t have upon her death. So it’s alright.

He creeps out of the cave, careful not to wake anyone, and looks up to the sky. Dawn will be fast approaching. He needs to hurry.

When Kilgharrah lands before him, he says, immediately,

“I need to cross twenty leagues of hostile territory to reach the Lake of Avalon.”

“I am not a _ horse_, Merlin.” Kilgharrah replies, indignant. Merlin rolls his eyes, spreads his hands in defeat.

“I need to get Excalibur. It’s the only way to defeat the Immortal Army.”

Kilgharrah goes silent once more, and nods his assent. But before Merlin can climb once again up that scaly back, Kilgharrah stops him.

“Young Warlock, I told you once that in the wrong hands, that sword could do great evil.”

“I recall…”

“And you recall that it was meant for Arthur, originally?”

“I do.”

“It is yours, now, and no-one else’s.”

Wait a moment… 

“Beg pardon?”

“You forged it. Arthur is no longer worthy of carrying such a noble blade. It is yours, and only yours, and you must make sure it does not fall into the wrong hands. Keep it on your person, if you wish, but let no-one else wield it.”

It’s a lot to take in. It makes sense, of course, but Merlin…he highly doubts that he’s worthy of such a magnificent blade. Why would he be? He’s…well, he’s heard many things about himself, and he knows many things about himself, but despite it all, and despite his blackened heart, he’s unremarkable.

But he nods in false understanding, and he climbs up, and hangs on for the flight, and pointedly does not think about what this means, about what he must do, or how he must do it.

But the Lake is peaceful when he arrives, and the pale light of the pre-dawn is reflected so beautifully, and there is, conveniently, an abandoned boat (though he wonders how there is always a boat just casually and conveniently laying about whenever he finds himself near a lake) that still floats, and holds his weight and everything. And he approaches the middle of the Lake, where he knows he chucked the blade the last time, and there! Out of the water, there! A slender, pale arm rises above the water, holding the sword for Merlin to take. He was right, that he was not going to be able to speak to Freya again, but he swears he can see her face, just below the surface of the water, her hair fanning out around her pretty features, smiling at him. 

It’s enough.

* * *

Gwen awakens to Merlin trying to sneak back into the cave. It’s just past dawn, and the boys will be waking up soon. In fact, Elric seems to be stirring, but he doesn’t notice Merlin arrive, with something held under his arm. She blinks her bleary eyes at him, as he comes into focus, and he doesn’t seem to notice that she’s awake, but he sits next to her, and lays a gentle hand upon her anyway.

“Where’d you go?” she slurs, and sits up. His hand moves to the back of her shoulder, and he turns his head to look at her, and she’s glad she didn’t startle him as she feared she would.

“I had to go and fetch something from the Lake of Avalon. Kilgharrah gave me a lift, so don’t worry about the potential of getting caught.” he reports, and his hand rubs gentle circles into her shoulder. “Would you like to see?” she nods, and yawns.

But she’s immediately alert as Merlin unwraps the cloth protecting the object. It’s breathtaking, and…familiar?

“It’s called Excalibur.” Merlin explains, and lifts the sword in its magnificence, and Gwen is mesmerised by the light glinting off of it, and though she can’t quite make out the inscription, it steals her breath away regardless. “Forged in a dragon’s breath. It can kill anything. Even that which is already dead.” she reaches forward, runs a finger down the flat of the blade, and she can feel the warmth, the raw _ power _ that emanates off of it.

“I can feel it.” she murmurs. “I can feel how powerful it is, and I’m only mundane.”

He gives her a funny look, at that.

“You’re not mundane.” he says. “You may be without magic, but you are far from mundane, my dear.”

Gwen can’t help but roll her eyes, albeit fondly, and nudge his shoulder, at that.

“Hush, you. Where did you get this?”

“Kilgharrah and I forged it, long ago.” he explains, and a brief sadness touches his eyes, but he pushes it away. “And then hid it, where nobody could find it. But when I learned that this could help us…of course I had to fetch it.”

“How can it help us, again?” Gwen asks, as she tries to wipe the cobwebs of sleep from her mind.

“I told you, it can kill anything.”

Anything.

Anything…

Including—

“Including someone who is immortal.” Gwen whispers, suddenly understanding. “But there’s so many! We can’t take out an entire army with just one sword.”

“No.” Merlin agrees. “But we can take out a few, and then empty the Cup to take care of the rest.”

That makes a lot of sense. However…

“I’ve known that we’d have to do this regardless, Merlin, but…going to the castle…being in there again. Are you going to be okay?”

He doesn’t answer her for a long time, and he doesn’t look at her, either. However, where she’s expecting to see that terrible, haunted expression, when he finally turns to face her, he looks…accepting, almost.

“I have to be.”

She doesn’t know what to say to that. Not really.

However, one by one, the boys wake up. Elyan and Gwaine, throughout their meagre breakfast, ask their nonstop questions, and Gwen would love to answer now, she would, but getting a word in edgewise with Gwaine is near impossible. Elric refuses to make eye contact, but he chats quietly with Merlin all the same, and Merlin seems happy enough to see him.

So it isn’t until after breakfast, that Gwen finally drops the news upon them, her and Merlin both, explaining the Cup of Life, and what it does, and what Morgause has done with it. Gwaine, for once, is silent. Elyan looks defeated. Elric looks like he very much wants to go back to sleep and forget about it, and Gwen can identify with that, a little bit.

“I have a plan.” Merlin assures. “But we need to find somewhere else to hide out, just for a little while. This place probably won’t remain safe for long. In fact, I think we may have…lingered longer than we should have. I propose we find somewhere to regroup, get our heads on straight, and go from there.”

“Bold words from someone who was wandering about the forest and rambling nonsense when we found him yesterday.” says Gwaine.

“Shut up, Gwaine.” say the other four.

“Shutting up.”

It doesn’t take long at all, to pack up their things, and for a moment, it seems fine. For a moment, all seems quiet. And then they hear the shouts.

There’s not many of them, and they’re certainly outnumbered by the footsoldiers that give chase. It’s all they can do to run away, because what _ good _ are they against soldiers who don’t die? Merlin is the only one with a weapon that’s any good against them, and even then…

Gods, she’s really starting to see just how terrible this plan of his is. But it’s all they’ve got, isn’t it? It’s all they’ve got.

She looks behind her as she runs, as Merlin tries his damnedest to push these soldiers back, and she can see them begin to swarm him, and she has to _ help _ him somehow, but there’s nothing she can do, and—

And with a flash and a foul smell, one of the soldiers all but disintegrates at Excalibur’s touch. Merlin, clearly, was not expecting such a violent reaction, and none of the other soldiers were, either. Nothing was supposed to harm them, after all. So Merlin takes his opportunity, dispatches as many of them as he can, and sprints to catch up. But it’s really no use— there’s just _ too many_, and it almost feels as if Morgana and Morgause and Arthur, like they _ knew _ Gwen and Elric were going to escape, like they let it happen. It almost feels as if they’re _ winning _ because they _ knew _ an ambush of so many men would have been hopeless for such a small group of people. Oh…oh _ gods_.

And they’re closing in, gods, they’re closing in, and Gwen is almost certain that this is the end, that in this narrow pass, the five of them will meet their end. It’s a sure thing, isn’t it? Because there’s no way—

But there is a way. Rocks, much larger than most men would be able to push, fall down, down and cut off all access between the soldiers of Camelot and small group of five rebels. Boulders, really. And Gwen doesn’t know where they came from, but she sees that her boys are unhurt, and she’s relieved, and she sees that some time has been bought for them, and she could _ sob _her relief. But they need to keep moving.

“What the hell was that?” someone is asking, despite the fact that they really do _ need to keep moving_. But it’s Merlin asking the question, and Merlin looking above them, and it’s Merlin’s eyes that light up in recognition, and Merlin’s lips that immediately split into a wide grin, and Gwen hasn’t seen him so happy since Aithusa hatched.

And as she follows his line of sight, she sees it, too. Him, rather, and she can feel her eyes light up as well, and she can feel the joy bubbling up within her despite everything else, and she hears herself cry,

“Lancelot!” 

And he looks, just as he always had, which is to say, he looks good.

And next to him, someone she doesn’t recognise. He’s rather large, she sees. Well, no, large is an understatement. _ Gigantic _ would be a better word. Gargantuan. But his smile is gentle, and his eyes are kind. She has no fear of him.

Lancelot, however, though his lips tick upward slightly in response, nods his head to indicate that they should keep going.

“We need to hurry.”

And it could be hours, or it could be minutes later, before they stop for a brief rest to catch their breaths. But they’re stopping regardless, and Gwen and Merlin, although both are short of breath from exertion, are hurrying over to their friend, and hugging him in turn.

It’s funny, Gwen thinks, because there was a time where her hug would have lingered, and there was a time when meeting his eyes would’ve made her heart stop, seeing him smile would’ve twisted her stomach in knots, but it is not so, right now. She pulls away, and doesn’t linger, and she can see in his eyes that it hurts, and she does, she really does feel bad, but…

She has Merlin. She didn’t think she could love anyone as she loves him. Even if he doesn’t return her feelings, it would be unfair to Lancelot, to merely settle.

“I take it that rockfall was no accident.” Merlin is saying, grinning, unaware of the tense, if brief, moment that had just transpired. Lancelot is shaking himself out of it, and grinning back, patting his friend, whose name Gwen still doesn’t know, on the back, and Gwen is relieved that the moment is over.

“This is Percival. It was his strength that brought them down.” Lancelot explains.

“Emrys.” Percival greets, and his tone is reverant, and it’s really quite silly looking— for one so much larger than the Warlock, he’s looking at Merlin with adoration, like he can’t believe he’s in the presence of _ the _ Emrys. And Merlin, although he cringes at the moniker, smiles gently back, and offers his hand to shake.

“Call me Merlin, please.” 

And it…it really is the most precious thing, in that moment, if Gwen is being honest. The smile that Percival offers back is small, and tentative, and he looks at Merlin’s hand like he doesn’t quite know what to do with it, like it’s surprising that Merlin would offer to shake hands at all, before he finally claps arms with the man.

“Merlin it is.”

For a while, nobody says anything, and Gwen knows what Merlin is thinking. She, too, is thinking it.

“So you finally decided to join us, eh?” Merlin asks, directed towards Lancelot, but there’s no heat to it. Only relief, and a gladness that he’s found his friend again.

“I got all your messages.” Lancelot confirms, and Gwen hadn’t known that Merlin had been sending messages to Lancelot, but she’s glad he did. “I just seemed to always be too slow.”

Sheepishly, Merlin rubs the back of his neck, but his smile doesn’t diminish.

“Sorry about that…”

“No worries.” Lancelot says, and for the first time, he, too, smiles, serious exterior melting away to reveal the friend they know and love. “You couldn’t stay in one place for long, I know. And we’re all together now. But we should keep moving on, you reckon?”

“Yes.” Merlin agrees. “Yes, of course.”

It seems like hours that they walk for, and nobody really says much, but that’s really alright. There’s not much _ to _ say, and focused on their survival as they are, it’s unsurprising that even Gwaine has gone quiet. Gwen can see their destination in the distance, knows that Merlin would have seen it and decided it to be a decent place to hide. So they all follow him in a straight line to the ruins of a castle, and follow him inside. They trust him, and they know that they are safe.

The room they find themselves in is vast, but undoubtedly cluttered, and dark. Gwen makes a game of it, as she searches the place, and lights the candles. As much of a game as she _ can _ make of it, that is. Gwaine finds weapons that had been stored away, reckons they must have been left by bandits, and Elric busies himself building a fire.

But a rustle of heavy fabric pulls Gwen’s attention away from the candles, and she glances over at Merlin, to see him standing almost stock still, eyes bright and curious as he looks at the round table before him. It’s a strange thing, she admits. She’s seen tables like it, of course, but never council tables, which is what this one looks like.

“Here.” Merlin calls, and Gwen secretly marvels that he can command a room with just one word, as she always does. “Come sit with me, for a moment.”

Slowly, everyone filters in. And everyone has that look on their face, like they know Merlin is up to something, but they don’t know what, as they sit down. But as Merlin pulls a chair out for Gwen, and pushes it in for her after she sits, she can see the realisation begin to dawn on their faces, as Merlin does not stand before them at the head of the table, but stands amongst them, as an equal instead of a ruler.

“Look at us, right now.” he says. “Look around. What do you notice, about how we’re seated?” and Gwen does look around, and she can see everyone’s face quite clearly. It really is…powerful. “I have no more importance than any of you, as a round table cannot physically afford one person more importance than any other. That’s really something, isn’t it?

“This table, I presume, and this castle, belonged to the Ancient Kings of Camelot. Seems they had the right idea to me.” he pauses, thinks for a moment, and continues. “Arthur and Morgana Pendragon, Morgause le Fay…they don’t believe in equality amongst men, and I’m reminded of that every time I happen to see my reflection.” Gwen’s breath catches in her throat, and she can see a similar reaction amongst the rest of the men, for Merlin _ never _ talks about what happened to him. But he doesn’t notice, continues clear, and strong.

“That is why we’re doing this. That is why we have devoted our lives to such a cause. Because this, beloved, _ this _ is the Pride of the Fallen. This is our aim, and our _ passion, _ our gods given Destiny. To take this broken land, and take these broken people, and stand up to those that oppress us, stand up and _ fight _ for our human rights, so that others don’t have to go through what I did. So that our children, and our children’s children, will know what it is to be free, and never even have to _ think _ about what it is to be dominated, to live a life ruled by injustice, and suffering.

“Tomorrow…I go back to Camelot, to empty the Cup of Life. That’s the only way, to stop this army. It will be dangerous, I know, and it’s probably very stupid of me to try to do. But it’s our only chance.” a pause, a deep breath, and then, “Are there any around this table that will join me?”

_ ‘Of course, you dollophead.’ _Gwen thinks. But as she stands, she merely smiles, takes his hand, and says,

“You already know my answer.”

Lancelot stands next.

“It was not Arthur, that taught me the values of being a knight.” he begins. “But it was you, Merlin, who taught me the code that every man should live by. To fight with honour, and for justice, and for freedom, and for everything that’s good.” he inclines his head, and continues, “I believe in the world that you will build.”

Merlin doesn’t seem to know what to say to that. And thankfully, he needn’t say anything, as Elyan stands, as well.

“You helped convince me that you shouldn’t always sit back and do nothing.” he says. “And it’s thanks to you, that I’ve been able to spend every day since with my little sister, and it’s thanks to you that she’s remained safe.” Gwen can feel her cheeks flush, at that, but it’s a nice sentiment. It warms her heart. “And I owe you everything, for that.”

Elric follows next.

“I remember treating you, after everything.” he says. “And I remembered how impossible it seemed, that you would even live, so much as being able to walk and talk again. But here you are. Merlin, I have always admired your strength, and now, to see how far you’ve come…” a smile. “I will follow wherever you lead.”

“We don’t have a single chance.” Gwaine sighs, but he’s grinning, and he’s standing, and he’s saying, “So, obviously, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Your enemies, are my enemies.” says Percival, as he, too, stands with the rest of them.

And Merlin…Gwen can see the emotions swimming in his eyes. Tears brim at the corners, but he’s holding back a smile.

“I want to thank you all.” he starts, voice thick. “For being here, in this, our hour of need. You are all, each and every one of you, more than I could’ve dreamed of, for friends, for brothers in arms. For…well. For family. Thank you.”

The atmosphere is heavy, but not in an oppressive way. Gwen, eyes shining, looks to the man whose hand she holds, and gives it a squeeze. Gods, she loves him. And she knows that everyone around the table, even Percival whom they only just met, loves him too, all in their own unique way.

And he loves them back, in his special, irreplaceable, Merlin way. Gwen wouldn’t change that for the world, and she knows, that neither would the men. Merlin is too precious, and right now, in the moment, Gwen can see it. And she knows she was right all along. 

She had mused that he should take the throne, and it had been a wonderful, rapturous thought. But now she knows, because it’s there for all to see. Merlin, the wise and caring leader, is the future King of Camelot, and Gwen wouldn’t have it any other way.

* * *

Sleep is fitful for Merlin that night. He had delivered his speech with confidence, he knows, and he almost believed it himself. But he’s fearful for Gwen, and his ragtag handful of men. He’s fearful, for the thought that none of them will make it out of this alive, that this is all for naught. But he has to believe it will work. He has to.

So when the morning comes, he makes a plan. He still knows the palace. He still knows how to enter through the dungeons.

“It will be heavily guarded.” he reports. “So if we want to make it to the Cup, we will have to remain unobserved.”

“Elyan and I will draw their attention away.” Gwaine reports. “Create a diversion. Anything to get as much of them off your back as we can.”

“So will we.” Lance says, patting Percival on the arm. Merlin nods.

“Thank you. Elric, if you wouldn’t mind staying here? We’ll need someone to tend the wounded when we get back. I’m certain there will be casualties.”

“Of course.” Elric replies.

“And Gwen—?”

“And I will be by your side.” Gwen says, interrupting him with a smile. “Where I always am.”

Well, he knew that. But he smiles to hear her say it, anyway, and nods.

“Thank you.”

It’s all he can say. He can never thank her enough.

And strangely enough, the atmosphere is not tense, as the men prepare themselves for battle. They joke around, playfully shove at each other, laugh loudly with each other. And perhaps it’s an effort to stave off their nerves, to get their minds off their ride into Certain Death. Whatever the case may be, it doesn’t feel like they’re preparing to lose their lives, and Merlin isn’t sure if he’s grateful, or nervous about that.

“Ready?” Gwen asks him, hand upon his back as she approaches. She looks a lot like he feels. Which is to say, apprehensive, terrified, but determined.

“Ready to march, outnumbered and barely prepared, into battle with an army of immortal soldiers?” Merlin sums, and cocks his head to the side in consideration. “Who wouldn’t be ready for that?” Gwen huffs out something of a chuckle, but says nothing, and they both look to the men. Merlin takes in a deep, shuddering breath, and says, “I just hope I’m not leading them to their deaths. I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that…they’re willing to be here. That they listen to me. I’m nothing…I’m nothing special.”

Gwen scoffs, actually _ scoffs _ at that, and turns to face him. She says nothing for a long while, but slowly, gently, she reaches up, places her hands upon his face, and it’s warm, and it’s calming, and it’s what Merlin needed right up until now. Her thumbs brush his cheekbones, gently, catching on the scruff he’s given up on shaving.

“Merlin, listen to me.” she whispers. “I watched you, last night. You gave us hope. And I saw the man, I saw the King, you’ll become. I’m so, _ so _ proud of you, Merlin. I need you to know that.”

He doesn’t know what to say. His heart constricts in his chest, and his stomach flops unpleasantly. And all he can think to do is say,

“I’m not a king.”

“Maybe not yet.” Gwen whispers. “But you will be.”

“How do you know? How do you know I won’t muck it up?” and before he can stop himself, Merlin finds himself divulging his worst fears, he can hear himself speaking and he doesn’t know when the words formed in his head, but he can’t stop them. “I…they did something, to me, something that can’t be measured or seen, Gwen. They killed me, in there. They killed everything I used to be, because I gave them _ everything_. Everything I had, or was, and they took it for themselves, and they destroyed it. I have a heart just as black, just as vile, as Morgana’s, and a spirit just as dead as Arthur’s. I…the kingdom deserves something better than that, Gwen.”

He pauses, and although he refuses to meet her eye, although he closes his own, he leans down to rest his forehead upon hers, just as he did all those days ago. And since he’s already confessed so much, he might as well confess the last bit that’s been on his mind for months now,

“The kingdom deserves you.”

Gwen’s breath catches in her throat, and Merlin can hear it in the proximity. They don’t say anything for a long time, and Merlin can only hope that she’s digesting his words, that she understands that she’s not right all the time, because how can she not see? How can she not see the change?

“I know you’ve changed.” she says, at last. “Anyone would have. But they cannot take away from you, that which makes you Merlin. You are a _ good _ person. Your kindness exceeds all other parts of yourself, and you _ care _about your people. You were predestined to unite Albion, and that has not changed. It is you, who can restore this land, Merlin. So maybe Arthur was supposed to be the vessel through which you made everything happen, that might have been true. But he’s not, anymore. It’s up to you, Merlin. And I know that’s a lot to take in, and I know that’s a lot of pressure, but with Arthur’s descent into what he’s become, you’ve lost a valuable tool, have you not?”

He wants to tell her that she’s wrong, he wants to tell her that it’s not like that, that there’s no way Merlin can do this, but he can’t get the words out. They stick in his throat, and refuse to dislodge themselves. So he stands there, gaping like a fish, and she smiles at him, leans up, and presses a kiss to his forehead, murmuring,

“Think on it. I’m going to go prepare some supplies.”

And she leaves him there, dumbfounded, the skin where her lips touched his forehead buzzing incessantly. He does not know what to say, he does not know what to think, and it’s all he can do to stare after her, even when Lance sidles up and pats him on the back, because he’s known Merlin too long, and too well, to not know when he’s distressed. Even if he doesn’t know what’s distressing him. They stand in silence, both staring after the woman they both love, for several long moments, until Lance finally breaks the silence with,

“You know…you’re the bravest of us all.”

Merlin can only shake his head, and finally, _ finally_, he tears his gaze away and looks to his friend.

“I’m _ so _not.”

“Don’t try to argue with me.” Lance says, but his tone is playful and light, and he nudges Merlin’s shoulder with a grin. “Look at what you’ve built, in the span of just a few years.”

“That was mostly Gwen.”

“Yeah, and you. Don’t discredit yourself, mate. You know your humility can get kind of irritating sometimes?”

Now where has he heard that before? Grinning, he says, “So I’ve been told.”

There’s a long pause, and the silence they lapse into should be familiar. Should be comfortable. But there’s a tenseness. Something neither of them will mention, and Merlin thinks he knows what it is. He wants to break the silence, he wants to reassure his friend, but he doesn’t know how, and he can’t even begin to figure out what to say. Finally, Lance says,

“You love her.”

He didn’t name a name, and he didn’t pose it as a question, but it's not an accusation, either. He knows, just as well as Merlin knows, who. He knows, just as well as Merlin knows, that it's an undeniable fact.

“Yes.” Merlin says. He looks over, and the _ hurt _ in Lance’s eyes is too much, because, gods, Lance is one of his oldest friends, Lance was the first person outside of Ealdor and aside from Gaius that knew of his magic before everyone else, and he’s the only one who remains having known Merlin as he was: the goofy, somewhat stressed out, young, Warlock. Not as a servant. Not as a leader. But as he was when he was a boy. It hurts to know that he’s hurt Lance, because Lance is his best friend, truly. So, quickly, he adds,

“I wouldn’t worry, though. It’s not as if my feelings are returned, yeah? She’s always had feelings for you, you know that as well as I do.” 

But to his surprise, Lance merely smiles sadly at him, and says,

“No.”

“No…?”

“She may have had, once. But I can see it in her eyes. She loves you too, Merlin.” and when Merlin begins to shake his head, opens his mouth to negate as much, Lance chuckles, throws an arm around his shoulder, and continues, “Don’t be an idiot, Merlin. I’ve seen the way she looks at you. Like you’ve hung the moon, and the stars in the sky. I just…I want her to be happy, is all. So if there’s one thing you can do, for me, it’s to make sure that she’s happy. That’s all I ask.”

For the second time in a very short span, Merlin is flabbergasted. Lance smiles once more at him, pats his back, and rejoins the others. It’s not until Gwaine finds Merlin, staring in disbelief at the floor, that the latter snaps out of it, shaking his head and offering a quick, ‘I’m fine’ in response to his friend’s questioning.

He puts it all to the back of his mind for now.He doesn’t think about being a king, he doesn’t think about the fact that maybe, just maybe, Gwen might love him back. He can’t. He’s got other things to focus on, and five people following just behind them as they make their way, swiftly and silently, back towards the place Merlin once called home, back towards the place that once held him captive.

His jaw sets, and he squares his shoulders. He can do this, he can. They can do this, together. 

“Remember that discretion is key.” Merlin says, and they know that, but he felt the need to remind them, felt the need to say something, though he’s not sure why. Maybe it’s because, the closer they get, the more ill Merlin feels. Maybe it’s because he can sense the Cup’s power, and he’s allowing it to guide him, and he knows, gods does he know, that dark magic has an overpowering aura to it, a sickly sweet scent meant to seduce, and a gentle pulse to it meant to draw people in. Perhaps that’s why Merlin feels as if he’s about to vomit, as they near the entrance to the dungeons. But he pushes it away, because it doesn’t help him now.

So he glances between the door, and the ramparts that it lies between.

Hold…

Hold…

_ Hold… _

And— now! The guards turn their backs almost at the same time, presumably to change position, and, as swiftly as they can while still remaining hidden, still remaining soundless, they make their way to the door. 

It opens easily.

They’re inside.

And Merlin won’t dwell on the fact that it all seemed too easy, because deep down he knows, getting in is easy. It's escaping that’s difficult.

“Okay.” he whispers, and quietly rounds everyone up. “We don’t have time today, to end this once and for all, though I wish we did. There are only six of us, and there will be soldiers who did not bleed into the Cup. So when it’s emptied, we retreat. Our rendezvous point will be in the forest, yeah?”

“How will we know when it’s emptied?” Gwaine asks.

Merlin thinks about that for a moment. Grimly, he reports,

“You’ll know.”

Gwaine does not question him any further.

It’s incredibly difficult to separate from them all, incredibly difficult to watch them break off into their pairs, even as they all smile reassuringly at him, even as they tell him that they’ll be fine. He tells himself that they will be. They _ have _ to be. Gwen squeezes his arm encouragingly. They press on.

Deeper into the corridors he still knows by heart, he can feel the Cup’s power increasing. It feels like walking through sludge, and its odor increases and threatens to choke him, and its pulse wraps around his mind until his head is pounding, but he pushes through.

“I can feel it.” he whispers to Gwen, and he frightens himself with the rasp of his voice. “This way.”

And he doesn’t want to get any closer, but he knows he has to. So they hurry along the corridors, and try to stay out of sight, but—

But they’re spotted. Should they be surprised? It’s incredibly difficult to fight, to even lift Excalibur so much as use it. But he _ has _ to, doesn’t he? And he has to protect Gwen, with her weapon that does nothing against their foes, and he has to get to the Cup to empty it to destroy this evil. He can feel himself slowing down, but he can’t give in. So he pushes forward. He pushes, and pushes, and _ pushes_, even as the warning bells ring in tandem with the mind-numbing pulse of the Cup and threaten to deafen him, even as he can feel himself be wounded by swords just as sinister as the power that emanates from the room just up ahead, even as the bright flashes that accompany each and every mortal blow he lands with Excalibur threaten to blind him.

He pushes.

And he pushes himself right into Morgause’s line of view. He expected her to be guarding the cup personally, but she’s not. She stands in the corridor, and just a few paces behind her is the door— the door to the room that Merlin _ knows _ holds the cup, because the entrance shimmers threateningly in his view. It’s not locked, he knows. It needn’t be. And Morgause is smirking that smirk of hers, and her condescension rolls off of her in waves.

_ Foolish boy. _ Her face says. _ Did you really think you could win? _

** _‘Did you really think I’d give you the satisfaction?’_ **

And Merlin recalls all the times she said that to him, all the times she laughed in his face, and something in him _ snaps_.

“No.” he hisses, and he clenches his teeth, and he tightens his grip on Excalibur. Morgause’s smirk widens, as he steps forward. Her eyes flash that molten colour, and it’s the only warning Merlin has before a wave of power comes toward him. But a strange thing happens.

He _ refuses_.

He stands his ground, and refuses to be knocked back, to be affected. Morgause is powerful, he knows, but he refuses. 

“_No._” he growls back, and the barrier is still up, and Morgause is still pushing, but Merlin is pushing back. Pushing with all his might, and he can feel his own power thrum through him, pulsing in his veins, gathering force and momentum, and pushing _ back _ against Morgause’s control.

He can see the very moment that she realises her attempts are in vain. He can _ feel _ the very moment that she lets the barriers fall, and instead reaches for the sword on her hip, and Merlin should be frightened. Morgause is skilled with the blade, more so than he. But he’s not.

Swords clash together mightily, and her footwork is better, her attacks are quicker. Merlin doesn’t see where they move, but he knows his back is to a staircase, and he knows this could be his end should he fall, but he shouts,

“NO!”

_ Because he _ ** _refuses_**_. _

And he thrusts Excalibur forward. 

And he can see in her eyes, that Morgause knows this is her end. He can see in her eyes that she’s frightened.

“Did you really think…” he hisses, and he can feel the snarl overtake his features. “I’d give you the _ satisfaction? _”

Her gasp echoes through the corridor as Merlin pulls the blade from her abdomen, and the thump of her body hitting the floor is resounding. Panting, Merlin looks up to see Gwen, just a few feet away from him, staring. He can’t quite decipher the look on her face, and…he’s not sure he wants to. 

“Come on.” he urges. He’d been blown far off course by the altercation. But they’re still close.

But it’s strange, isn’t it? The corridor Morgause had backed him into is almost…secluded. And she lay there, alone on the floor. Merlin almost feels bad for her. But after she laughed in his face so often, after she ridiculed him for his death wishes, he finds he doesn’t care. She died the death she deserved, in his opinion. Alone, but for the enemy who slew her.

And yet…it’s not over. The Cup is still heavily guarded. But dispatching those guards seems easy, now. And Merlin doesn’t even have to actually kill them, does he? He fights his way through them, and there’s only six in total, and he can hear Gwen grunting in effort behind him, and he has a clear path to the Cup, and all he has to do is _ empty _it and this is over, it’ll all be over, so he sprints, and he raises Excalibur on instinct, and he can feel his power burst forth as he delivers that last blow, and the Cup is knocked over, and the flash of bright light reflects on the wall as the last of the soldiers are destroyed, but Merlin can’t focus on that, no.

All Merlin can focus on is the blood.

It paints the room. It splashes on the floor and fills his vision. And the stench of it reaches his nose, and he gags, because good _ gods _ this is just like— the ocean is back, and this time, it’s coming for Merlin, and it’s going to consume him, and there’s no escape for him, and all he can see is _ red, _ all he can smell is that sickening metallic scent, all he can hear is the sound as droplets of the stuff, thick and ugly, drip onto the floor with a thick, wet sound, and he can’t _ move_, and he’s drowning in it, good gods, he’s drowning!

“Merlin!”

Gwen’s voice is far away, and Merlin can feel the sick rising in his throat, and the pulsing from the Cup is gone, but its scent is still there, and it’s mingling with the scent of blood, and gods, oh _ gods, _ he’s going to be sick.

But— a hand on his shoulder. No, no, this is good. The weight on his shoulder is good. Oh, when had he dropped to his knees? When had he dropped Excalibur? Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter! Gwen’s voice is soothing, and her face, in his line of vision, is pretty, and nice, and so maybe Merlin hasn’t been consumed by the sea of crimson, so maybe he won’t be. Because Gwen is there, and she’s speaking softly to him, and her hands are gripping his to stop them shaking, and it’s okay…it’s okay…because Gwen is saying so, so it must be true.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the pain in Merlin's chest eases. Slowly, his airways open back up until he can breathe properly again. The pounding in his head recedes, and soft, gentle hands brush the tears from his eyes. And as Gwen leans forward, presses a kiss to his hairline, he closes them, and he relaxes. But he knows he needs to stand up, he knows he needs to get a move-on. He will, eventually.

“Thank you.” he whispers. Gwen doesn’t say a word, and for some reason, Merlin is thankful for that.

But there’s something off. Something that Merlin hadn’t noticed, that he should have. And he can see Gwen’s eyes widen, but before he can react, before he can ask what’s wrong, a familiar voice hisses out an incantation, and Gwen freezes in the moment, unblinking. Merlin moves to turn around but a hand finds his hair and _ yanks, _ and he cries out without meaning to, because oh _ gods, _ oh gods, _ no. _And he knows it isn’t Arthur’s hand. Far from it. It’s too feminine to be him. But he knows who it is even before she jerks his head around to face her. How could he not know?

“Welcome home, _ Emrys. _ ” Morgana purrs. It sends a shiver down his spine. Gods, he hates it. He hates _ her_.

But he’s terrified all the same.

“Home.” he rasps, and he knows he should use his magic, push her away, reach for Excalibur, _ something, _but he’s frozen on the spot, locked into place by cold, lifeless emeralds. “This will never be home.”

“Oh, don’t be like that.” she sighs, and a deceptively soft and dainty hand cups his jaw. A whimper escapes him. He hates himself for it. “We’ve missed you, Merlin.”

“I’m sure you have.”

The hand in his hair eases, because Morgana knows that he won’t go anywhere.

He hates that she’s right.

Because how does he get around her? How does he move past her when she terrifies him so? How does he even _ look _ at her without thinking of everything she did? How does he listen to the sound of her voice without hearing her harsh words, or her cruel laughter, her insults? 

And how does he kill her, when once upon a time, he loved her so? How can he justify taking up Excalibur and striking her down when he knows he’s responsible for the way she is, when he knows that the monster before him is one he created?

He can’t.

He trembles, instead.

“You’ve waited awfully long.” he points out. “Why not find some new bloke to torment?”

To his surprise, she coos at him, a sarcastic, sickly-sweet sound, and pats his cheek.

“You underestimate me.” she murmurs. “Patience and I are old friends, Merlin. Surely you know that.”

He does. Gods damn it, he does know that.

“And anyway. You’re my favourite pet. It’d be a shame to give up on one so pretty.”

He wants to _ vomit_.

“I am not your _ pet, _ nor am I your _ whore_.” he spits. And she laughs at him. It’s a sickening sound.

“Sure you are. Remember what I said to you?”

The hand finds his hair again, wrenches his head back, and she moves closer, face inches from him, and her breath is just as sickly-sweet as the rest of her, and it’s _ suffocating. _

“You’re a dog, darling.” she whispers, a repeat of what she said to him so long ago, in the echoing council chambers, and the words still taste like poison, and they still wrap around him like a serpent, and steal his breath away. “Be a good boy, and _ go fetch_.”

But something occurs to him.

It’s funny, isn’t it? Gods, no, it’s _ hilarious_. For so long, he heard that. For so long, he _ felt _ like a dog, chained and collared, trained into submission. But hadn’t he killed Morgause much like one might _ put down _ a dog? Hadn’t he reduced her to nothing, taken away her humanity, just as she and her sister did to him?

So he laughs. He tries to hold it back, but he can’t. It’s quiet at first, mere huffs of breath, near-silent chuckles, but it grows in his stomach, and bubbles up in his throat, and it keeps coming until it’s a force of guffaws that would have him doubling over if he could, and he’s laughing in her face, because he can’t _ help _ it. It’s just so damn _ funny _ to him. And he can see Morgana’s pretty face twist in enraged confusion, and he can feel her tightening her grip and jerking his head to get him to stop, but he _ can’t. _

“What’s so funny to you?” she’s demanding. “Have you gone completely mad?”

Finally, _ finally_, he gets himself under control, but he’s grinning up at her, and maybe he _ has _ gone mad, but all he can think of is,

“You say I’m your dog? You could be right. I could be nothing more than a beast for you to abuse and amuse yourself with to your heart’s content, but you want to know what I find funny?” he can feel his smile morph into something else, something ugly. Something between a real smile and a sneer. “It was your sister that _died_ like a dog.”

The hand tightens, and he hisses at the sting, but he doesn’t care. He knows he affected her.

“You’re lying.”

“Don’t believe me? Go see for yourself. Down the corridor, to your left.” 

She looks like she still doesn’t want to believe him, but he can see her resolve begin to crack. Neither of them say anything, for a long time. Until, with a shriek of rage, she lets go, throws him to the ground, and even her hold over Gwen is relinquished. Merlin hears her gasp from behind him as Morgana struts out of the room.

“Merlin, what the hell…?” Gwen begins, confused. Quickly, Merlin stands, grabs Excalibur and the Cup, and pulls Gwen up to her feet.

“We have to get going. Now.”

They’ve no time to lose. So they run, sprinting down now empty corridors and through piles of ash that used to be soldiers, sprinting down the staircase and past confused courtiers, past befuddled soldiers who hadn’t given their life to Morgause’s pact.

Behind them, Morgana’s screams of rage and grief echo through the castle walls.

* * *

They run for gods only know how long. They run until they can’t anymore, and Merlin does not let go of her hand, and if she were to look in his eye, she knows she’d see them wide and wild. She doesn’t remember what transpired. All she remembers was seeing Morgana enter, and then seeing her leave, but she knows something happened. Perhaps she blacked out for a moment, but she’ll never know, not unless Merlin tells her. Seeing how it was Morgana, however? He very probably won’t. Not that she can blame him.

They had sprinted past the others, and Gwen looks behind her occasionally, to make sure they still follow, and she keeps taking a headcount, trusting Merlin to guide her, because she can’t believe that the other four actually _ survived, _but gods is she grateful. They follow as closely behind as they can, trying to keep up with Merlin’s mad dash to get out of there.

It’s not until they begin to lag behind that Merlin comes to an abrupt halt. And even that seems an understatement. It’s like— one minute they’re running for their lives, and the next it seems as if Merlin’s legs simply give up, and he’s letting go of Gwen’s hand, and he’s on his knees.

And this is similar to his reaction to seeing the blood spill back in the castle, but _ worse_. Back there, he had frozen, and it seemed as if time slowed, and he’d fallen to his knees slowly, eyes wide, and he hadn’t made a sound, other than his ragged breathing, and his tears had been silent. But this, right here, is different, and almost frightening.

He’s hunched over, hands gripping the grass, and he’s trembling, and the sounds he makes…it takes Gwen several moments to realise that he’s _ retching, _ and that his retching is mixed with harsh sobs, and little half-screams that he seems to have no control over. And he trembles all over, to the point where he almost looks as if his body is vibrating, and Gwen doesn’t even know what to _ do_. She knows why his reaction is so violent, she knows what disturbed him so. And all she can do is move closer, drape herself around him, protectively, hold him as tight as she can.

The others follow, silently, and it almost looks a little silly, the five of them huddled around Merlin, but what else can they do? Nothing. Nothing at all. There are no words they can say, and they all seem to understand that he needs to let everything out, so it doesn’t consume him.

There’s no way of knowing how long they sit there, with him. But none of them move until his breathing evens out, until his shaking stops, even long after that. Nobody says a word, not even him.

Hours later, they stand together and watch as Merlin reels back, and throws the Cup of Life as hard as he can, and they watch as it sinks deep into the Lake of Avalon, where nobody will be able to find it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> baby badass BEANS i love them. Gwen especially. Gwen owns my soul. also? i really hope some of y'all are Tombstone fans, otherwise my reference to it when Morgause died would've been a total waste--
> 
> hope you enjoyed! next week is another one of my faves :D


	10. Battle Cry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the end it will always be known that it is always darkest before dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS! BE! MY! FAVORITE! CHAPTER! I'VE! WRITTEN! I'M! SO! EXCITED! TO! SHARE! IT! WITH! YOU! OH! MY! GODS! djkldsjflksad;jflskad i'm stoked for y'all to read this, in case you haven't figured that out. i hope you enjoy! :D
> 
> Chapter TW: mentions of various past abuses

He didn’t kill Morgana, and he should have. He should have grabbed her by the throat and squeezed the gods forsaken life out of her, he should have run her through with Excalibur, he should have done _ anything _ aside from run like a scared little boy and vomit up the contents of his stomach once he was safely away. But he didn’t. And now, weeks later, he’s beginning to see what a foolish decision it was.

Not just her, but Arthur, too. He should’ve found the coward wherever he was hiding and put an end to him as well. But he didn’t. And now, weeks later, he’s beginning to see why he should have swallowed all his qualms.

Now, weeks later, he’s lost count of the rebels he’s lost. He’s lost count of the battles. War has not been officially declared, but since the first official battle, won by only six people in a castle, there have been many. Almost all of them, have been lost. Almost all of them have ended in retreat. Merlin recalls with a shudder, Maria’s anguished cries as Faber bled and died in her arms. He recalls that she was silenced only by a crossbow bolt to the throat. He recalls that he was too slow to save either of them.

And there’s a thought. A terrifying thought. But it’s profound, and insistent. It’s there every time someone dies, it’s there every time another’s blood stains Merlin’s hands, and it’s as loud as the anguished cries of his fallen brothers and sisters. He’s never voiced it, but it steals all his focus, and it’s all he can think about, and he can’t even hear the words Gwen is saying to him, he can’t even feel Gwaine’s placating hand on his shoulder, or meet Percival’s comforting gaze. Because he knows how he can end this all.

_ ‘I should have stayed. I should have gone back to my Tower. At least, then, nobody else would have to die, because of me.’ _

It makes him ill, and every time he thinks about what he’ll be putting himself through, should he go back, he can’t even breathe. But there’s so much death. Villages have been burned to the ground, and although Queen Annis is strong, although she’s a force to be reckoned with, the sudden death of her husband, while he was trespassing on Camelot’s lands to try and protect the rebels, is clearly taking its toll. Caerleon is days away from falling. The only one Merlin isn’t worried about is Aithusa— she had left a while ago, free to roam the earth as Merlin had hoped for her. He knows she’s safe. That’s all he wants for her.

Yet all he can think about is offering himself up, like a sacrifice. He can deal with the pain, he can deal with the humiliation, as long as the people he’s come to love, far more than he could ever love anything else, are safe.

Today is particularly horrible.

Gwen limps about their dwindling camp, her leg bandaged and her face pale, and tends to the wounded as best she can. Gwaine holds a hand to his bleeding side, face drawn in exhaustion and defeat. Lance holds a hand to his head, and Merlin knows that it’s superficial, that head wounds bleed profusely and only _ look _ worse than they usually are, but he feels _ sick _ every time he looks at the blood matting his friend’s hair and staining his hand. Elyan is weeping, honest to gods _ weeping_, and he’s trying to hide it the best he can, but it shows. Percival looks like he wants to curl up and sleep for a hundred years, and he’s sitting with his head in his hands, because even his strength wanes. And Elric looks like he wants to give up, because the badly wounded are hopeless, at this point, and there’s nothing he can do to save them, not really.

And Merlin stands in the middle of it all, and he doesn’t know what to do. Eyes wide, he glances around helplessly, and he knows he can help, and he knows he can heal, but he can’t get his legs to move. Because this is all…this is all _ his _fault. He created a monster, and she turned his friend into one, and the three of them single-handedly tore apart their predestined stories, piece by piece. And sure, they treated him like an object, they kept pushing and pulling and bending and scratching until he broke, but one thought, one terrible thought sticks out with alarming clarity.

He deserved it.

He poisoned Morgana. He turned her into the thing he fears most. He deserved _ everything _ that happened to him, because if he hadn’t poisoned her, and if he’d just sucked it up and _ told her _ about his magic, then none of this would have happened. She’d still be his friend, and Arthur would still be his friend, and Leon and Gaius and Mother would still be _ alive _ and these people, these people that Merlin cares so much about, that he loves so much more than words can express,they’d all be safe. And Gwen wouldn’t be limping and Gwaine and Lance wouldn’t be bleeding and Elyan wouldn’t be weeping and Percival and Elric wouldn’t look about to give up and Merlin—

Merlin wouldn’t bear the scars that he does.

The thought is so damn weighty, so damn persistent, that he finds himself moving automatically, one singular goal in mind. He does what he can to help— healing the wounded, blessing the dead, and trying to give hope where there is none. But how can he give hope when he doesn’t have any himself?

So he walks to his tent, in somewhat of a daze, somewhat dreamily. And he begins to pack. Because he knows he can put a stop to this. Gods, he just wants his friends, his family, to be safe. And he’s crying, he realises, hands shaking as he fills his pack, and he’s just throwing things in there, because it’s not like he’s going to get to _ keep _ any of these things, but it’s something to do, perhaps a way to stall the inevitable. And he doesn’t _ want _to go, but he knows he has to, so he weeps silently as he continues to pack, bites down hard on his lip so he doesn’t make a sound, and he needs to get ahold of himself. He’ll go back to Camelot, go back “home” as it were, with his head held high, and he’ll know that his people are safe.

“What are you doing…?”

Gwen’s voice startles him, yet he manages not to flinch, if only just. He doesn’t answer. Because how can he? So he wipes his tears as discreetly as he can, and takes as deep a breath as he can without it giving a telling shudder. He doesn’t turn around, because he can’t meet her eyes, and he can’t look at her injured leg— he’d healed it for her, of course, but he’ll still see the limp, still see the bloodstain and the exact place where a bolt had lodged itself— because it’s _ all his fault. _

“Merlin. What are you doing.”

There’s a nervous edge to her voice, as if she can read all his thoughts, and she very probably can. He winces to himself, but schools his features as he stands, and finally turns to face her. He can see the defiance that he loves about her in the very crease of her brow, but her eyes are wide, disbelieving, and he feels as if she already knows what he’s planning. She blocks the exit of the tent, feet shoulder width apart, arms crossed, and her eyes are narrowing now, as he nears her, and she’s staring up at him with that challenging look on her face, usually reserved for the insubordiance of the past and their current enemies. He hates that it’s directed at him.

But he deserves it.

“Get out of the way, Gwen.” he means to sound demanding. In fact, he means to frighten her, maybe, although he’d hate himself if he did, even if he knows that it’d be easier for everyone if he drove her away. But his voice comes out weak, and he just sounds…tired, even to his own ears.

“No.” Gwen says, and her voice has a tremor to it that, if Merlin hadn’t been paying close attention, he would have missed. “What are you doing.”

He still doesn’t answer her. He can’t even summon the strength to open his mouth. And in this moment, he wants to do something— to lean down and kiss her head to say goodbye, use his magic to move her out of the way, something. But he can’t. He feels not unlike a child, who’s been caught in the act of whatever misbehaviour, and he’s ashamed, and he can’t look away from her, but he wants to, so badly. Fix his gaze on the ground, something. But he’s caught in her stare, and this isn’t good, this isn’t good _ at all_.

“You’re going back.”

So she did know.

“I have to.” and he hates that it comes out as a hoarse whisper, and he hates that Gwen scoffs in disbelief, he hates the way her jaw clenches.

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I really do.”

“No, no you _ really _don’t! What the hell has gotten into you!?”

And now, _ now _ he can feel it, and he hates it, but it’s there, bubbling up in his throat like word vomit, and he can’t stop himself from saying,

“It’s _ my fault!_” and this time, when he shouts, she doesn’t flinch like she did the last time he raised his voice at her. “All of this, the death, and the destruction, all of it is my fault, Gwen! If I hadn’t— if I was better, and smarter, this wouldn't have _ happened, _ and if I go back, then it stops. I can’t—,” and he can’t meet her eyes. He finally tears his own away from her gaze, and stares at the ground, anywhere but her, because he doesn’t want to see the look on her face. He doesn’t think he could bear it. “I can’t go on like this. I can’t watch anybody else die _ because of me! _ And it would be better for everyone if I went back, can’t you see that!? Whatever it is that they mean to do to me, fine, whatever. Let them do it. I don’t care about that, not anymore. I care about you, and I care about the men, and I care about the rebels, and I can’t keep letting this happen, I can’t.”

Silence, for a long time, save for Gwen’s ragged breath, and he can tell that she’s angry, and he can _ feel _ the words she means to say before she even speaks them.

“So you’d throw away everything we built, just like that.”

“I’m trying to _ protect _ everything we built, Gwen! I can’t just— let this keep happening to try and save my own skin!”

He sees the flash of movement, but it still comes as a great shock to him when Gwen delivers a resounding slap to his face. Shocking enough, in fact, that he can’t do anything, save for stare at her in disbelief, and hold a hand to his stinging cheek, and gods, he’s never seen her so angry.

“Fuck you!” she shouts, and, no, he wasn’t expecting that, either. “You going back there isn’t protecting anything! If you go crawling back, it’ll destroy _ everything _ we’ve worked for, and I’m not going to let you give everything up, just because we seem to be losing! What do you think Leon died for, Merlin!? Or Gaius, or your Mother!? This isn’t just about you, Merlin! This is about the people, because it’s not going to _ stop _ if you go back! This is the only way to put a stop to them, surely you must know that. And making such a _ stupid _ decision, leaving the rest of us to deal with this? That is the most _ selfish _ thing that you could ever do. You want me to say that this is your fault? Fine, sure, whatever, it’s your fault. And if it is? Then you _ fix _ it. But _ not _by imprisoning yourself in a gods forsaken tower for the rest of your natural born life. You think you created the monsters? Fine. Then it’s up to you to destroy them.”

When he doesn’t say anything, when he stares at her, dumbfounded, for several moments, she draws in a shaky breath, and, eyes glistening with angry tears she says,

“Fine. If you want to leave, I can’t stop you.”

And she walks away from him.

* * *

She’s angry. She’s heartbroken. She just wants to _ scream_.

So she walks for what seems like hours, she walks until she’s out of earshot, and she takes a deep breath, and lets it all out in an ear-piercing shriek. And she screams until she can’t anymore, she screams until her head hurts, until she runs out of breath, until her throat hurts so much she feels like it might be bleeding. And when she’s done, she sinks to the ground, and she holds her head in her hands, and she sobs. It’s not a violent fit, not like the one she just threw, not like the one she threw when Leon died, but the force of it shakes her shoulders, and she can’t stop. 

Because Gwen understands the frustration. She understands the hopelessness of the situation. She understands feeling helpless, and had felt it especially as she limped away from the battlefield with a bolt sticking out of her leg, when she had seen her brother weeping, when she had seen Faber and Maria’s lifeless bodies. She gets that all, gods, does she get it all. But nobody said it would be easy.

So she doesn’t understand why Merlin would willingly subject himself to everything Morgana and Arthur would use him for. Logically, she knows that he can’t. Logically, she knows that, although the Pendragons may not know it, the Revolution has the advantage. Merlin’s collar had been a relic, something that Gaius probably would have said was used by the ancient priestesses or something like that, and it probably took Morgause _ ages _ to find it. There’s no way of knowing if it was the only one or not, but finding another one is either impossible, or at least very difficult, and the one Merlin wore was destroyed. It lay in pieces, hidden away within Gwen’s belongings. 

Now, she doesn’t know why, precisely, she kept it, but something told her to. Oftentimes, when she’s supposed to be asleep, she pulls it out, stares at the pieces, and wonders what she could do with it. Part of her wonders if it can be fixed, if they can use it, eventually, against Morgana. But that’s silly, isn’t it? Even if Gwen knew how to go about repairing such a cursed object, she doesn’t know how they’d lower Morgana’s guard enough, how they’d get close enough to her to lock the damned thing about her neck.

And she’s remembering now, with a shudder, that the collar isn’t the only thing that could bind someone who’s Gifted. Merlin had worn shackles that did the same thing, up until Morgause’s arrival. Those aren’t exactly something that would be thrown away, she supposes. So she’s terrified all over again, she’s angry all over again, because she _ knows _ Merlin can’t be stopped when he sets his mind on something, even if it’s his own destruction. Perhaps _ especially _ if he knows it’s his own destruction. And the tears are coming back, and she’s gripping her hair, and she wants to scream again, because this is just _ unfair, _isn’t it? And she’s livid with Merlin but her heart hurts for him, and gods, how can she love someone so much but want to strangle them all the same?

“Gwen?”

She’s hoping that it’s Merlin. She’s hoping that he’s come to apologise, or even fight with her again, because she equal parts regrets what she said and wants him to regret what he said, and she wants to apologise, but she wants to tell him just how _ angry _she is, just how much he scared her, all at the same time.

But she finds herself both relieved and disappointed, when she turns around.

“Oh. Hi, Lancelot.”

He smiles at her, soft and sad, and sits next to her. She’s acutely aware of the distance, and she’s not entirely sure how to feel about it.

“Everything okay?”

She gives him a flat look.

“Okay, yeah, point taken.” he sighs. “Only I heard you and Merlin shouting at each other? And I saw you walk away, and you looked upset, so…” he searches her face, with that knowing look of his, and it almost irritates her that he can be so calm. His head wound is healed, but he’s yet to wash the blood from his hair, and if _ that _ doesn’t epitomise the way things have been going, she’s not sure what does. “What happened, Gwen?”

She thinks for a moment, unsure what to say to him, unsure whether or not she should tell the truth. But this is _ Lancelot. _ She trusts him as much as she does Merlin. She presses her lips together in a thin line, gazes at the trees.

“He wants to go back.” she says, at last.

“Back…” he repeats. “Back to Camelot?” when she nods, his eyebrows lift briefly, and he doesn’t look entirely surprised. “Then he’s an idiot.”

“Well, we all knew that.” Gwen huffs, and she immediately feels bad for it, but at the same time, it feels good to say. Lance lets out a chuckle, but it sounds almost nervous.

“We love him for it, though.”

And that’s the infuriating part.

“I just don’t _ understand. _ ” she gripes, suddenly fierce. “Why would he do that? How can he even _ think _ about doing that? He said it was to protect us, and I just…I don’t understand how he could be so stupid.”

Lancelot considers that for a second, nodding slowly, and he looks as if he’s chewing on his words.

“It may not make sense to you, and it certainly doesn’t make sense to me, but maybe it makes sense to him? I mean, you understand how desperation tends to leave logic a bit skewed, right? And this is…definitely a desperate time. For all of us.”

She hates that he’s right.

“And I understand that it upset you. You’ve the right to be upset. But now isn’t the time for a domestic.” his tone is light, teasing, and Gwen takes no offense. She huffs slightly in amusement, and shakes her head. “Come on. We should be getting back. The others will be worried sick.”

He stands, and offers her a hand that she pulls herself to her feet with, and he’s quick to let his hand drop to his side when she’s standing. It feels…strange, but ever respectful, as Lancelot has always been. Silence encompasses the pair as they walk back to the camp, but it doesn’t feel heavy, or nervous, not like it used to.

“I’m sorry to gripe about him to you.” Gwen says after a while. “I just…he drives me mad, sometimes.”

Lancelot hums in amusement, and though he doesn’t meet her eye, his smile is soft, and she knows his eyes are sparkling with mirth.

“That tends to happen when you’re in love with someone.”

She stops, unsure if she heard him correctly or not, as he continues to walk. He’s several paces away when he seems to notice that she’s no longer beside him, and turns to regard her curiously, and she likens him to a puppy in his questioning glance.

“What…?”

To her surprise, he laughs softly at her.

“Come on, Gwen. It’s there for all of us to see. You’re mad about each other.” he pauses, and laughs again, a little guiltily. “Actually, some of us are taking bets on how long it’ll take the two of you to finally admit it to each other.”

She doesn’t know what to say, and for some reason, the fact that he’s smiling so softly at her, so encouragingly, _ hurts. _But it…it’s a good hurt. A pleasant ache, almost akin to the feeling of setting something heavy down, after carrying it for hours. It hurts, but it’s a pain that means relief is coming soon. He nods his head in the direction of the camp, and wordlessly, she falls into stride with him.

“I…Lancelot, please don’t take this the wrong way…” she begins, as they near their destination. “But why…I mean…how are you…taking this so well?” she cringes. “That sounded vain, did that sound vain?”

This time, when he laughs, it’s boisterous, and he tosses his head back with the force of it.

“Not at all!” he assures. “Not at all, don’t worry. I…Gwen, whatever we had, though it wasn’t much, was very special to me, and you know that.”

“I do. It…it was special to me, too.”

“And I know that.” he tells her. “And I do love you.” it’s such a casual admittance, but for some reason, it makes Gwen sad. “And I believe I always will. But you do know what that means, right?” when she shakes her head, he grins, and says, “It means I want you to be as happy as you can possibly be. Gwen, I wish you _ every _ happiness, and I wish Merlin every happiness, because I love him, too. I love him like he’s my own brother.”

He stops, leans down, and presses a soft kiss to her hair.

She wants to cry.

“And you know what? I want to thank you. I definitely prefer seeing you happy with someone else, to seeing you miserable, with me.”

No, scratch that, she’s going to cry. Damn him. Damn him for being so amazing, and so understanding. It isn’t fair.

“You’re a remarkable man, you know that, Lancelot?”

“I try.”

“And you succeed.”

They reach the camp, and Gwen almost expects Merlin’s tent to be disassembled, and she almost expects someone to run up to her, to tell her that he’s missing, and she holds her breath for it. But then she sees that familiar mop of dark hair, that familiar build, and she lets it out. She can’t approach him, not yet, even if her heart hurts to see his eyes light up at the sight of her, only for him to quickly look away, ashamed. She will, eventually, when she’s finally cooled off completely. But she’s not sure if she can handle it, right now. Not with the state she’s in.

“It’s funny, though, isn’t it?” Lance murmurs. Gwen startles— she almost forgot he was still next to her.

“What is…?”

“Just…all this drama, for nothing.” when she narrows her eyes at him, he’s quick to add, “I mean…he’s Emrys. He’s rumoured to be the most powerful sorcerer…ever. It’s hard to imagine him staying captive for long…”

Gwen casts a dark look at the ground, only looking up to glance at her tent, where the broken remains of the collar hide within the confines of her pack.

“There’s ways to bind magic.” she mutters. “That’s how they got him the first time. Morgause found this collar, and if he tried to use his magic, it caused him immense pain…” she shudders, and adds, “I don’t know how true this is, but there were rumours floating around that both Morgana and Morgause could activate it, shock him, by directing their power to it.”

Lancelot shivers.

“How did…how did he escape?”

“You didn’t hear?”

“I’ve heard so many stories that I don’t know what’s fact and what’s fiction.”

Gwen casts a nervous glance to Merlin, and finds him engrossed in conversation with Gwaine, who, thankfully, looks a whole lot better than he did this afternoon, smiling and nudging his friend— and she’s glad to see Merlin smile, because even if it’s wan, it’s something.

She finds the resilience to speak about That Time again, and says,

“He tried to kill himself.” and when Lancelot’s eyes widen, she spreads her hands, somewhat helplessly. “I mean, can you blame him? There’s no telling what they did to him. I…saw some things, and I’ve seen the scars that were left behind, and I can’t imagine…” she shakes her head, pulls in a deep breath, and continues. “He climbed onto a parapet, and…threw himself off. But, obviously, he survived. His collar broke, and his magic kept him alive.”

“Thank the gods for that…”

“Yeah, he didn’t share that sentiment, at first.”

“I can imagine…but, if the collar broke, then what’s the worry?”

“There were shackles.” Gwen reports with a grimace. “That did the same thing. And I don’t know what happened to them, but they must’ve kept them as a failsafe. Those aren’t something you throw away.”

Lancelot’s eyebrows furrow, and he remains deep in thought for several moments. He opens his mouth, and closes it again. He opens it, and closes it again. Gwen has to hold back a giggle, however ridiculous it feels to do so, because it’s a gesture that reminds her so much of Merlin. 

Best friends, indeed.

“What did they look like?” he asks, at last. Gwen wracks her mind to remember.

“If I recall…they were oddly…pretty? They looked like bracelets. Actually, they looked like the collar, and I have a feeling that they were a matching set, at some point. Not sure how Morgana had them, but they must’ve been in Camelot’s vaults, probably used during the Great Purge, I’d imagine. But they were etched with runes, surely, and inlaid with stones.”

Funny how something so pretty could be so evil. But then, Morgana is a real person in the world, so maybe it’s not that surprising after all.

No, what’s surprising and strange, is how Lancelot’s eyes light up at her description.

“Hold on!” he says, and dashes off before Gwen can say anything.

“I…okay?”

She’s about to follow him, when he comes rushing back with his pack in hand. He glances to Merlin, as nervously as Gwen had merely moments prior, and turns his back to the Warlock. Gwen furrows her eyebrows in confusion, but as she peers into the pack to look, and sees a familiar glint, her eyes widen in realisation, even before he pulls the shackles partially into the open.

“I found these in the dungeons when we were there, and I thought they looked strange. I was going to ask Merlin about them, but then everything got…yeah.”

She wonders how he hid them, how she didn’t notice him carrying them from the castle, but that entire day was so whirlwind, so confusing and disjointed for all of them, that it’s no wonder nobody noticed the object that Lance had filched.

But that means…

That _ means _that they have the last thing that, to Gwen’s knowledge, can bind magic. It is no longer in Camelot’s possession. It’s theirs.

They can bind _ Morgana’s _ magic. It won’t be any easier than locking a collar around her neck, but it’s _ something. _

Lancelot is quickly hiding the shackles again, now that he knows of their history, and Gwen can appreciate that he doesn’t wish to remind Merlin of That Time, but she grabs his arm.

“Lancelot, we have to tell Merlin. This is how we defeat Morgana.” she can’t help but smile, because _ gods, _ there’s hope now. Just a glimmer, but it’s there, and it’s far more precious than any gem or jewel. Lancelot glances to Merlin, then back at Gwen, and nods. “Just…let me talk to him, first. Alone.”

He smiles his understanding.

She’s entirely too glad to have him as a friend.

* * *

He regretted everything, the moment she walked away from him. And he’s not sure which is worse— the fact that she sounded so resigned when she left him, or the fact that when she returned with Lance, and he saw the tear tracks on her dirty face, he instantly knew that he was the one who put them there. He felt sick with it, and the words that both of them said to each other resonate with him, and won’t leave him alone, and he wants to approach her, he wants to apologise, but he doesn’t know how.

So he leaves it for hours, far longer than he should, and sees to the rebels instead. He and Gwen give each other a wide berth for the rest of the afternoon, and long into the evening. It’s long past time to retire for the evening before he gathers his resolve, and begins to look for her.

He needn’t go far. She’d been looking for him too, apparently. And for a long while, they don’t say anything. They look at each other, unmoving, neither of them knowing how to put how they feel into words. And then— and then they’re moving at the same time, and she’s pressed up against him, and he’s holding her, and her arms around his neck, and they’re both holding on for dear life, because both of them know that the last thing they want is to lose each other.

“I’m sorry!” Merlin is saying, and he wants to hate that it comes out tremulous, and he wants to hate that he feels like he might cry, but at the same time, he doesn’t care. All he feels is relief and regret. Relieved that she’s here, that he made the decision to stay, and regretful for the fact that they’re in this position at all.

“I’m sorry, too.” she’s whispering, and she’s carding a hand through his hair, and he can feel that she’s crying, as well. “I know that it’s hard right now, I do. I know this can’t be easy for you. I’m so sorry, Merlin.”

But he feels as if she needn’t be sorry. Because she was right about everything. And he tells her as such, saying,

“You were right. It— was a stupid decision, and it was a desperate decision, and _I_ was stupid and desperate, and—,”

And she’s pulling away from him, but only just, and her hands are on his face, and she’s brushing his hair away from his eyes, and _ gods _ he loves her so much.

“Shh…” she soothes, gently. “I know. I get it. And I shouldn’t have— it doesn’t matter.” and then she smiles, and for a moment, everything feels _ right. _ “But we have established that I am, in fact, always right.” 

Merlin startles himself with a laugh. But it feels good to laugh, and especially good to laugh with _ her. _ But her smile falls, and his heart sinks, and yet, all she does is whisper, pleadingly,

“Stay.”

And he can do that. If nothing else, he can do that for her.

“I swear it.”

She closes her eyes in relief, and rests her head upon his chest. And in return, he rests his cheek atop her curls, and it’s...nice. Familiar. Comforting. He holds her, and it’s Right. He’s content to stay here with her, until dawn, until the end of time, holding her, breathing in everything that makes her…Gwen.

The moment ends entirely too soon, however, and leaves him with a deep ache that he wishes he couldn’t define.

“Lancelot and I have something to show you.” she reports, and he doesn’t argue when she takes his hand, and leads him to the tent Lancelot shares with Elyan and several others. Interestingly, he stands outside, and Merlin wonders, with no small amount of trepidation, what he and Gwen would have to show them that they couldn’t show in front of the others. He has his hands behind his back, hiding whatever it is, and he nods to Merlin in greeting.

“I found something, in the dungeons when we were at the palace.” he says, and he sounds grim. “And Gwen thinks it could be useful to us.”

He’s concerned, but curious all the same. He nods his assent, and the first thing he notices, as Lance brings the object out into view, is not _ what _the object is, but the sound it makes. And Merlin can feel his heart clench in his chest, because he knows, even before he sees them, he knows what they are, and he has to swallow back his immediate reaction, because this is Lance, and Gwen, and if they think they’ll be useful, they will be.

The shackles glint in the low light of the dying fires, and Merlin recalls how they glinted in the candlelight, how they clanked together deafeningly every time he moved, but he pushes it back. He pushes it back, and tries to think of why they’d be useful, and it’s right there at the forefront of his mind, but he can’t quite grasp it, focused as he is on not panicking.

“We can use them against Morgana.” Gwen tells him, and _ that, _ that snaps him out of his reverie, and the realisation slams against him, suddenly and violently, and he doesn’t know what to do, but he can hear himself laughing, a small laugh of…something, but he doesn’t know what.

But this is what they needed. This is how they win. If they can get close enough to Morgana to shackle her, then the rest is easy. Arthur may be strong, but without Morgana’s magic protecting him, he’s as good as dead. The challenge, of course, lies in actually shackling Morgana, and Merlin doesn’t know yet if he’ll be able to, or if he’ll choke like he did the last time he had the opportunity to kill her, but he has something he hasn’t had in _ weeks. _

He has hope.

* * *

It doesn’t get any easier. Gods, it really doesn’t. If anything, their challenges become all the more difficult, their tasks insurmountable. Caerleon falls, and Annis is taken as a prisoner. They haven’t heard of her death, so they hope that she’s alive, merely captive. 

But Gwen can see the renewed vigor in Merlin. She can see— no, she can _ feel _ the raw determination, in every blow he lands, every well-aimed strike with Excalibur, every burst of magic, every spell, every breath, and every bead of sweat that runs down his forehead. 

_ He’s back. _ She thinks, delighted. She has him back.

And even though the battles are becoming more frequent, even though they still suffer losses— their numbers begin to grow again. Refugees and rebels from Caerleon, allies of the fallen kingdom, as many as they can get, and _ gods _ they didn’t expect it but…it’s wonderful nonetheless. Well, wonderful doesn’t seem the right word, but Gwen welcomes her new rebels with open arms, and a smile.

Hope, the key to their success, the one thing they need more than anything, is abundant. That’s all Gwen ever wanted.

But this…she’s never seen anything like this.

There’s no way to count the number of soldiers. But from where they stand, barely a mile away atop a cliff that doesn’t seem high enough, overlooking the immense valley before them, they can see that they’re clearly outnumbered. She’d heard that Camelot had allied with the Saxons, but she didn’t want to believe it. Now, looking out, she knows it to be true.

Merlin’s jaw sets, and his hand tightens to a fist where it rests on Excalibur’s pommel, and Gwen expects to see just a flash of fear, the same fear she feels, in his eyes. But just like the distant rumble of thunder, his resolve is constant, unbreaking. She takes a deep breath.

“If we go down…!” she announces. “WE GO DOWN _ FIGHTING! _”

And someone, it sounds like Gwaine, screams, 

_ “LONG LIVE THE REVOLUTION!” _

And recklessly, their troops charge into battle, as the thunder increases, drawing nearer and louder, and more ferocious, nearly drowning out the screams of the people who demand their freedom, who will fight for it until the bitter end. The storm clouds above cast a shadow over the land, and it seems like with every clash of swords, there’s a clash of thunder to match, a bolt of lightning to rally them. The rain pours down in sheets, but Gwen barely notices, and she’s lost in what she’s doing, lost in the moment, as she takes down whoever crosses her path.

But she chances a look back, and she stops. Merlin hadn’t moved, from where he stood upon the precipice. He remains still, and it seems like he’s merely overseeing, but…but she looks closer, and she can see, even from where she is, the rigidity of his posture, the tension in his shoulders, and it’s a look she can recognise, and she knows what’s about to happen. She can _ feel _ it, and she doesn’t know how, but she can feel him drawing his power, feel him pulling it from the earth, from the air, from the lightning and the thunder, and the rain, and she screams out, 

“RETREAT!”

Because she knows that they need to stay out of his way. She knows that with whatever he’s going to do, he won’t be able to distinguish friend from foe. So she keeps screaming it, over and over, until her rebels, clearly confused but understanding that she knows what she’s doing, follow her lead. She ensures that her brothers and sisters are off the field, and that her inner circle of Knights (they may not be, officially, but they will be, and that’s all that matters) help her usher the stragglers to safety.

She can see, now that she’s closer to him, she can see that Merlin is holding himself back for as long as he can, eyes glowing as he remains rigid, waiting. She only barely passes him, when it begins.

And the battle cry he lets out is _ deafening, _and with it, the earth shakes, much like the day Hunith died only more resounding, more powerful, and even most of the rebels, from where they stand, safely away from the point of attack, fall to the ground with the force of it. Even Gwen finds herself on her knees, and Elyan has a steadying hand on her back, and all of them, every single revolutionary, remains crouched for safety, heads ducked down.

The enemy is not so lucky.

All Gwen can see are flashes of light, and it could be the lightning, or it could be something else that she dare not think about, and the wind whips around them and threatens to blow them all away, and the thunder is earth shattering. And yet, all she can hear are the screams of men who meet an unimaginable end, screams of anguish and terror, and it scares her. Gods, it _ terrifies _ her, to know that Merlin has this kind of power, to know that he can cause this kind of wreckage, and she can’t help but think about how _ screwed _they’d all be should he not be as good a person as he is, should he use his power for personal gain instead of the liberation of his fellow man. Briefly, she wonders why he’s never used it before, why he’s kept this part of himself locked away, but the thought is gone from her mind as soon as it entered. She knows why he’s never done this.

And she’s honestly grateful for it.

There’s no telling how long it goes on for, no telling how many perished in the valley. It seems to go on forever, but at the same time…it feels like no time has passed at all, before the screams subside. And she wants it to be over. She’s glad it’s over.

But the earth does not stop shaking. The thunder grows louder, the rain becomes heavier, the wind remains vehement. She knows Merlin needs to be stopped, before he gets himself, and everyone else killed. But she also knows that he can’t stop. He’s broken the dam, and his power pours out of him in waves upon waves, so much so that everyone, even the mundanes like herself, can feel it, draping over them and around them and pulsing through the air. He can’t stop himself. Someone needs to stop him.

“MERLIN!” Percival cries, “MERLIN, IT’S OVER!”

But he doesn’t hear. Gwen can hear her people clamouring, shouting and begging for him to stop, but it falls on deaf ears. So she makes a decision. It’s an unwise one, but someone has to, and it might as well be her.

Shakily, trying to find her footing on the vibrating ground, she stands. And she pushes through the wind, and she tries to remain standing as the ground quakes beneath her feet, and for a brief, terrifying moment, she doesn’t think she can do it, she doesn’t think she can get to him, and several times, she nearly falls.

But she pushes through.

She pushes, and she pushes, and she _ pushes, _ until at last, she can place a hand on his shoulder. And for an instant, as she touches him, she feels what he feels. She feels the raw power coursing through her veins, and for a moment, the world is in shades of amber, and she knows that in that brief second, her eyes replicated the glow of Merlin’s. And in that moment, she can reach him. With the power that he shares with her, she can call him back.

“Merlin.”

It’s not a scream, nor is it a desperate plea, but a whisper.

“Come back to me.”

And…it’s over as soon as it began. The wind dies down to nothing but a gentle breeze, and the thunder moves off into the distance, and the flashes of lightning are no more. The storm clouds clear, and the birds sing again. Sunshine, warm and comforting, returns.

Gwen chances a look down to the valley, and nearly gasps in horror at the absolute decimation of it— almost every last man lay dead. Only a few stragglers survived, but their retreating forms are mere dots in the distance. She looks back, at concerned faces, and gives her Knights a grim nod. They seem to understand her wordless order, and usher everyone back, away from the cliff, back towards the camp. She’s glad that they can’t see the carnage from where they stand.

“Gwen…”

Merlin’s voice is weak, raspy, _ desperate. _ And when she turns to him, she’s both amazed and horrified. He stares in her direction, but past her, and his eyes…gods, his eyes are _ still _ glowing, amber hues searching for her, seemingly and, hopefully, temporarily sightless, and his mouth hangs agape, and he looks like he wants to say something, but all he can do is croak out a feeble and pleading,

“Help me…help me—!”

And she doesn’t know what to do, aside from reach out to hold his face. Gently, she brushes his damp hair from his eyes, smooths it back.

And she leans up, and places a gentle kiss to his lips.

“I’m here.” she whispers. “I’m here, Merlin.” 

And slowly, ever so slowly, the amber glow diminishes, bit by bit, until his eyes are reflective of the clear skies above. She can feel the very second his control snaps back into place, and immediately, he slumps forward, and she can barely catch him before he falls to the ground. His breathing is laboured, ragged wheezes accompanying every inhale and exhale through his open mouth. So she guides him to the ground, both of them kneeling in the mud, and she holds his head to her chest, and wraps an arm around his shoulders. He’s trembling, she realises, and she tightens her grip, as it’s the only thing she knows how to do, the only way she can think of to quell his shaking.

“I’m sorry…” he’s murmuring. “I’m sorry…”

“No, don’t be sorry.” whispers back. “Don’t you dare be sorry, Merlin. You did so well.”

“I frightened you. I frightened everyone. I could feel it. I could feel it all, but I couldn’t _ stop, _I—,”

She shushes him, quietly, and it’s rather miraculous that he heard him at all, and even more so that he stopped his rambling.

“It sounds to me like you frightened yourself as well.” she tells him, and it sounds like he wants to laugh, but it comes out as a mix between a moan and a whimper. “But we all would’ve died if it weren’t for you. You saved us, Merlin. You saved us all.”

She knows that they need to get back, soon. But she daren’t make her move, not until he’s good and ready. So she’ll hold him until he can gather the strength to stand. She’ll hold him until he settles, until he feels like he can face everyone.

It’s the least she can do, for the man she loves.

* * *

He trudges back to the camp, steadied only by his arm around Gwen’s supportive shoulders, and her arm around his waist, and all he wants to do is curl up and sleep forever. He doesn’t want to face the rebels. He doesn’t want to see the terror behind their eyes, now that they know what monster he can become, now that they know how easy it would be for him to release his control and leave nothing but death and destruction in his wake.

And that’s the difference between his two names. Because it doesn’t feel like he’s both Merlin and Emrys. He feels like they’re two different men. Merlin, who’s been martially trained for his survival, who knows how to smile and laugh and grieve and be…human. But Emrys is someone else entirely. Emrys is the avenger, Emrys the being who leaves nothing but wreckage and a trail of bodies behind him. And it’s Emrys that had slipped out, Emrys who had threatened to consume Merlin. And Merlin doesn’t want to go back, not when he’s only barely locked the other man away. 

But he has to go back, he knows. So he swallows back his dread and stumbles along.

He doesn’t expect the welcome he receives.

“There they are!” someone shouts, and Merlin is confused by the tone of it. They don’t sound angry, or afraid. They sound…happy? He barely has enough time to process as much, before the entire encampment into cheers. It’s deafening, and confusing, and Merlin doesn’t know how to react.

Gwen is smiling up at him, and the Knights are each clapping a hand on his back, and his rebels are roaring their support and encouragement, and it’s overwhelming, and he doesn’t know what to do with himself, and he wants to laugh, but he wants to cry, and he wants to lay down and _ sleep, _but instead of doing any of those things, he stands in place, dumbfounded, and unable to do anything aside from stare. Gwen rubs his back, gently and encouragingly, and he knows she understands.

When the cheers die down, the silence is deafening, but strangely, not oppressive. Expectant, maybe, but not oppressive. And Merlin opens his mouth to say something, but words escape him.

“I…I don’t know what to say.” he confesses. “I never expected, after…after that, I didn’t think…I…thank you. That’s…I can’t express…”

“We understand.” Lance says, and his grin is blinding. “Thank _ you, _ Merlin.”

“The battle would have been lost without you.” Elyan says, unknowingly mirroring his sister’s earlier sentiment. “You’re the reason for our victory.”

“I thought it was terrifying.” Gwaine says, ever the bluntly honest person he is, but he’s grinning that stupid, infectious grin of his, and he means no offense.

“Shut up, Gwaine.” replies a chorus of voices. 

“Shutting up.”

Merlin laughs, weak though the sound may be. Gods, he loves them all.

“So…” Percival starts, and as his kind and calm demeanor all but washes over the crowd of rebels, the excitement settles even more, for which Merlin is grateful. “That was…quite the victory. How do you want to celebrate?”

That’s a good question. A very good question. Merlin doesn’t even need to stop to consider his answer, and blurts,

“With a nap.” 

A harmony of gentle laughter reaches his ears, and Percival’s smile is warm, and comforting. 

“You definitely deserve one.” he says, and his large hand reaches up to ruffle Merlin’s wet hair affectionately. “Gwen?”

“Yeah, I’m on it.” Gwen replies, and offers one last smile to the lot, one more, “Thank you all, really.” before she leads Merlin away, and he follows gratefully. 

The interior of his tent is familiar and comforting. The muted light filtering through the tarp, the herby smell that mimics that of Elric’s tent, even the sight of his untidiness, it all serves to remind him that he’s still alive, his rebels are still alive, and although the morning was pure insanity, although Merlin knows, gods he _ knows _ that his official declaration of war has been made, it feels…normal. He needs it. He needs normality for as long as he can have it.

“Are you okay?” Gwen asks, softly, as she helps him out of his cloak. He doesn’t know how to answer that, not really, and it takes him several moments to think about his response.

“I’m…yeah, I’ll be alright. Just…tired.”

“I could imagine.” she murmurs. “Come on, let’s get you out of your wet things, and you can lie down for a while, yeah?”

That sounds good to him. And it really goes to show just how exhausted he really is, because he’s not embarrassed about the fact that he needs assistance. Besides, this is _ Gwen. _ They’ve long left embarrassment behind, and nakedness isn’t something they dwell on anymore, having been at this for years now, having bathed in the same streams and changed in front of each other more times than they can count.

Merlin dries his hair best he can, as Gwen lays out his wet clothes in the best way to dry them. He’d use his magic, but he doesn’t want to risk it. Controlling his Gift takes up more energy than using it, and he doesn’t want his resolve to slip again. So they go about their tasks mundanely, domestically, and it feels…nice.

“I…forgive me for saying so, but I never totally realised, that you…” Gwen starts, and cuts herself off, as if afraid that it’s the wrong thing to say. He tries to offer a smile.

“That I was so powerful?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t like to think about it.” he confesses, quietly. “I don’t…like to think about the destruction I can cause, and how…the option was taken away from me, how I couldn’t access it even if I tried, when…yeah. I prefer to…heal.” and he does, truly. He’s been hurt too much, he’s seen others hurt too much, and he doesn’t want anyone else to. He doesn’t want to become like the people who _ cause _ the hurt, and he doesn’t actually _ want _ to revenge. He knows that some people can fall prey to the thought that, because they went through hell, why shouldn’t anyone else? And he doesn’t want to be that way. He doesn’t want Emrys to overtake him. He wants…freedom, for everyone. Equality, for everyone.

“I don’t want to revenge.” he finishes, almost too quiet for Gwen to hear. “I want to liberate.”

When he turns around, he meets her eyes, and he wasn’t aware that she’d gotten so close, but it doesn’t bother him. Quite the opposite, in fact. And there’s something there, in her warm, brown eyes, something that he can’t name, but he can recognise it, and it’s beautiful.

“You’re too good for this.” she whispers. “You’re too good of a person to be doing this. But at the same time…I don’t know if anyone else could do it as well as you. Even after that…you can come back to yourself. You don’t…allow yourself to succumb to that power, and…I felt it, Merlin. I felt how _intoxicating_ it is. Only for a brief moment, but it was there. I…” she doesn’t finish that thought, the words aborted before she can speak them. He’s not sure if it was better left unsaid, or not.

“You pulled me back.” he tells her. “I’m here now, because you called to me.”

It’s a powerful confession, one he wouldn’t have made if he wasn’t focusing all his control on keeping his magic contained. He can hear Gwen’s breath catch, and he can see her throat moving as she swallows, and he’s still too exhausted to decipher the look in her eye, but it intensifies.

It’s breathtaking.

They don’t say anything more. There’s nothing to say, not really, and they’re both alright with that. Gwen guides him to his bedroll, and he lays down as she directs. But he can’t stop himself from reaching out, gently grabbing her arm to keep her from standing, to keep her from leaving.

“Stay.” he whispers. “Please.”

And in his blurring vision, as his eyelids become too heavy to keep open, he can just barely make out her smile, as gentle and beautiful as she is.

“Hold on.” she whispers in answer. “I’ll be right back.”

He can just barely make out the rustling of fabric, and as he begins to fade from consciousness, he can just barely feel the warmth of her body pressed against his. His last thought, as sleep overtakes him, is that he thinks she’s wearing one of his tunics, because her scent seems to mingle with his own.

It’s a soundless lullaby, that takes the nightmares away. He dreams instead of warm brown eyes and a complexion that reminds him of the summertime, and the memory of the kiss that had brought him back to Earth.

* * *

Hours later, long after Merlin had woken up and long after everyone was fed, she’s not entirely sure what compels her to reenter his tent. With everyone quietening down for the night, with all the excitement of the day dwindling down to nothing, Gwen supposes she should retire. She supposes that Merlin would like to, as well. Though he was refreshed by the nap he took, she can tell that he was still as tired as he could be.

However, be it the months, gods, the _ years, _ of letting the tension build, be it their successes of the morning, or the kiss she gave him, or the quiet conversation she and him had shared in the afternoon, something has her to slipping into his quarters.

He hears her enter, of course, and greets her appropriately (or as appropriately as he can given the situation), but he doesn’t stop what he’s doing, as he readies himself for bed. 

With his tunic off, his pale skin seems to glow in the candlelight. The scars that seem so harsh in the daylight seem even more so, now. She remembers with a jolt that he thinks that they’re ugly. He thinks that they show a time of weakness.

He couldn’t be more wrong. If anything, they highlight his insurmountable _ strength _. Most men let their muscles speak for them, work hard every day to prove themselves. Merlin needn’t try. His natural fortitude is obvious, and he’s the marks to show for it. 

Gwen says nothing. She doesn’t know, at this moment, how to communicate her thoughts. She _ hasn’t _ known. Because all of this, all of their tension, all of her lusting and pining and _ love _is coming to a head, and all she knows is that she’s given herself over in nearly every aspect save for one, and she can’t keep going on without telling him. She’s going to burst, if she doesn’t tell him, and she needs to try, at the very least she needs to try, so no matter how it turns out, she’ll be able to say she had the courage to do so.

And should he accept her, should he in return give himself to her, she knows she’ll cherish the gift, forever. She wants him. Gods, does she want him. She wants him to have her, she wants him to love her.

She steps forward, carefully, almost silently. The first touch of her fingertips to his back has his breath catching, and good gods, is it the most beautiful sound in the world. His exhale is shaky, when she gently traces each of his scars. He says nothing, and he doesn’t tense. If anything, he relaxes into her touch. So she takes it as his permission to continue.

“Gwen…”

She pauses, then, afraid for a moment that she’s done something wrong, that she didn’t read his reaction correctly. But when she looks up, when she looks into those eyes, she sees only her very own thoughts reflected back at her, as if they share one mind, one body.

One soul.

It’s not passionate and needy when he turns, and captures her lips, but tender, sweet, and slow. His hands cradle her face, as if holding something precious, irreplaceable.

In this moment, she feels cherished. _ Loved_. 

Her hands, restless, first find his chest, but don’t remain there for very long. Arms sliding up to wrap about his neck, she laces her fingers in those (surprisingly soft) dark locks.

She’s loathe to come up for air. She could die happy, like this, lost in him, lost in his touch. But oh, when he rests his forehead upon hers, when he looks into her eyes, she doesn’t mind at all. 

She loves him so.

It’s not…ideal, no. They’re in a tent, after all, and there’s no bed. But he still makes an effort that she appreciates, giggles falling from her lips as he, quite literally, sweeps her off her feet. He’s gentle as he lays her upon the bedroll.

And he remains that way.

It’s…everything she imagined, but a million times better. His voice in her ear is soft, crooning. His hands on her skin ignite uncountable sparks of sensation. The soft grunts that fall from his lips sound like salvation.

He holds her the entire time, gently, and, dare she say, lovingly. He takes care of her in ways she hadn’t ever thought possible. All of his intense focus is centered on her, and she’s not completely sure she’s alive anymore, for surely, she must be in heaven.

Even afterwards, his hands don’t leave her, his arms remain wrapped around her as his deft fingers lazily trace meaningless patterns against her skin. They say nothing, opting instead to exchange languid kisses. They need not say anything. 

Everything left unspoken, is wordlessly understood.

* * *

He wasn’t surprised. He felt that he should’ve been, but he wasn’t. He was _ relieved, _ gods was he relieved, when the tension finally broke, when he finally had the chance to hold her in all the ways he’s ever wanted to, when she held onto him, and kissed him, when she made him feel safe, and welcomed, and loved.

Her name tumbling from his lips like a prayer, he worships her. And her voice calling softly to him in return, her gentle sighs, sound nothing short of angelic. Her skin is delicate and smooth beneath his fingertips, and it glows in the soft light. It’s not desperate, it’s not needy, and there’s no sense of urgency; they take their time, explore each others bodies as if they have all the time in the world, because as far as they know, they do. But there’s an intensity to it, one that Merlin can’t describe.

And this is nothing like he’s experienced in the past, not one bit. He doesn’t precisely know how, can’t pinpoint why this is so different from his traipses back in Camelot, before everything. But then again, as he looks into her eyes, maybe he can. He’s always heard that it’s better when you love someone, and he used to scoff at it, he used to think that sex was just sex, but clearly, _ clearly _ he was wrong. Everything about Gwen envelops him— she draws him in and intoxicates him, she fills his senses more than he ever thought possible, and he loves her.

Gods, he loves her so much.

She falls asleep long before he does, and he’s not sure how long he stays up, listening to her gentle breathing, staring at her peaceful face. He knows, now, that everything has changed, and for once, _ for once, _ it’s a good change. He knew before, in his mind, that she would never leave him, because she told him so. And he knew before, in his mind, that he would never leave her, and he told her so. But now he knows it in his heart, and it’s so…it’s hard to wrap his head around, it’s hard to believe. He almost suspects that he’s dreaming. And if he is? Gods, he never wants to wake up. He could remain here, forever, watching her sleep, and he gingerly brushes the curls from her face, as carefully as he can, because he’s almost afraid that if he touches her in this perfect moment, it’ll cease to be, that she’ll crumble and blow away in the wind.

But she doesn’t. Still asleep, she leans into his gentle touch, and sighs out of her nose— a quiet, content sound. She shifts a little, and settles, head nuzzling his chest. And he really could get used to this.

“I love you, Guinevere.” he whispers to her. “I’ll always love you.”

She smiles in her sleep.

* * *

It’s Gwen that wakes up first, and can’t recall the last time she felt so…gods, she can’t even put it into words. The dull ache between her thighs can be ignored, because she feels…safe, and warm, and there is no other place she’d rather be. She’s aware of every place where skin meets skin; where her naked chest is pressed up against his side, where his rough hand is pressed gently against her back, where their legs intertwine. 

And gods, is she happy. 

The pale morning light highlights Merlin’s face in a way that makes him look ethereal— more so than usual at least. He looks at peace, for once, as he dreams. His slow, even breaths, and the gentle rise and fall of his bare chest exuding a sense of serenity she hadn’t been aware was possible for him, anymore. It seems that his slumber wasn’t plagued by nightmares for a change, and she’s glad for it. Glad that she could— help give him that, at least a little. She could stare at him like this all day if she could, truly. She could lay with him like this until the end of time, tracing patterns on his skin and running her fingers through sparse chest hair, or through his beard.

There’s a sleepy groan from her lover, as he begins to stir, and for a moment, she contemplates pretending to be asleep, merely so they don’t have to move. But he doesn’t seem too keen on moving, anyway, as he blinks open sleep crusted eyes and offers a lazy smile. In fact, if anything, he pulls her closer to him, and she’s completely alright with that.

“Morning.” he murmurs, softly, into their bubble, blissfully isolated from the rest of the world.

“Good morning.” she murmurs back, and if her giddiness is showing she doesn’t care. Gentle fingers move to push her hair out of her face, and _ gods _ , when she meets his eye, she can’t look away. She’s so used to stormy gray, so haunted and forlorn, that the change in them this morning absolutely floors her. They almost look like they did when she first met him, as pale as the sky and so full of love and life that it makes her _ ache. _ She barely comprehends his words as he asks her how she slept, and she blurts out,

“I love you.”

For a moment, she thinks she made a mistake. He stills, and they’re barely breathing for several moments, his wide eyes stuck on hers. Just as she thinks she might’ve frightened him, that telling him she loved him was something she never should’ve done, that she was wrong all this time and she’s been reading the signs all wrong, he breaks into a wide grin, and it’s just so damn _ beautiful _that she forgets how to breathe.

“I love you,” he tells her. “Gods, I love you so much.”

Funny how three little words can steal the thoughts from her mind, can have her smiling so wide that it almost hurts, can have the pair of them giggling against each other’s lips.

She lets out a happy sigh, and settles back against him, her lover. And my, what a wonderful world that is, lover. A person with whom she’s in love. A person who loves her back. With her head on his chest, listening to his heart beating, she contemplates how strange and wonderful it is, that she could be so happy with one person, even as the world burns around them, even as it’s known that it is their solemn duty to extinguish the hellish flames of dictatorship and help their fellow man rise from the ashes as something new.

But here, in the moment, it hardly matters. Here, in their corner of the world, in the peace and quiet of the early morning, it is only Them, and that’s all they need.

“I don’t want to get up.” she murmurs.

“Yeah, me neither. I suppose it wouldn’t be too horrible of us to have a lie-in.”

“No, I don’t suppose it would.”

Only Gwaine, of course it’s Gwaine, takes that moment to flutter into their tent, arms filled to the brim with maps, and two bowls of what looks like porridge balanced precariously in one hand. 

“Alright Merls, up you get! We’ve lives to save, and kingdoms to liberate and— oh.” he stops, and, apparently upon seeing Gwen for the first time, grins. “Was wondering where you’d gone off to. Nice night, was it?”

“Gwaine.” Merlin says, eyes closed in exasperation.

“Yeah, buddy?”

“Please leave.”

“Right! Of course! Just gonna drop these off and…you two have a lovely morning.”

“Goodbye, Gwaine.” Merlin emphasises.

“Right, yeah! I’ll just take my leave then. This is me, getting out of your hair. Goodbye, then!”

The tent is silent for several, long, slightly awkward moments, before the pair is breaking out in a fit of giggles. 

“Are you sure we have to keep him around?” Merlin sighs. 

“Gwaine? Gwaine is fun! A bit nosy, but, y’know, he means well.”

“True enough, I suppose.” he sighs, and pats her back softly. “I suppose the entire camp already knows, so we might as well get up.”

She wants to protest, but logically, she knows the moment is well over. She’s just happy that it happened at all.

“Right. Off to save lives and liberate kingdoms, are we?” she murmurs as she stretches. Merlin glances over as he pulls his tunic on, and grins. She shouldn’t be surprised that he leans in to give her a chaste peck on the lips, but it’s a nice surprise nonetheless.

“And there’s nobody else I’d rather have by my side than you, darling.”

And Gwen feels the same about him, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i say it every chapter and i'm saying it again. Gwen is the goddess that owns my soul. i love her more than life itself. thank u. anyway, i know it seems like an odd place to end a chapter called "Battle Cry" but i just needed me soft babes to have something, y'know? let MerGwen be happy 2K20.


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